Poetry

Today is one of those days. My body reminds me of its firm limits, the bark contouring a twig, the sheer face of a rocky ledge. Hard edges. I want to burst forth

fly with fluid    wingbeats in swift bursts of     straight flight execute       quick tight turns and dives     rarely gliding flying a few      inches above the ground or water    append their nests in mud to

Later, you forgot our names, and everything. It was miserable visiting you in those sheer passages smelling of urine and iodine. Dad wouldn’t let me see. I sat in the hallway hearing

Van Gogh’s mad ear enflamed a field of purple irises—marring the face of a sleeping homeless man. Artists render people like pastels & watercolors. The wounded gather shopping carts & talk

Distant, ashy, close to the edge, I might lose you in the pauses. Faded by the spotlight, disguised in white paint. Misshapen, lost to certainty, you focus on the expanse between touch and