I ask God the mouth the mountain holy
snow where does the rain go in desert
yellow enunciation of healing the sand warm
fingers pressed against a forehead as
firmament or a ruse I’m just saying it’s easy
in growing old to live confused
(originally published in Little Rose Magazine, Winter 2018)
are a law.
Lawyers of alloy &
beaming far off.
This galaxy lazy
noise & heartbeat.
Hash & shadow,
hair & gold.
Skin, its own
Sunshine the gift &
a Sistine visit.
mouths for wings.
I thought you wanted
something like this.
(originally published in Botticelli Magazine, Spring 2018)
Night falls yet clematis retain their violet.
O overrated light please save our dying
breed of seeing. X-rays. Monocles.
To me you are a single stem breaking
from the dark. And I, the hand stenciling
jittering petals under jetstream.
(originally published in The Wayfarer, 2018)
static tethered to words
back-of-throat now wandering
(originally published in #theslideshow, Winter 2018)
here I look at the same room I’ve spent many nights in
the diffuser diffusing the world’s hues into you & me
the cat composed of smoke
Sara takes a sick day & the room crawls with veins
I watch my own age spiderweb into me flipping pages in a manuscript
this room is made of hair this room breathes fur webs
this is what brains are made of
every imprint of hand
when you sit down this bed this ocean floor this beginning
(originally published in Ariel Chart, Fall 2017)
did you see me?
(originally published in Canyon Voices Literary Magazine, Spring 2018)
After Gray Clark
I need to quit my job as the caretaker of people
who surrendered art to come home from work
and watch television. I can imagine acrylic
burning a canvas for eternity. Giving up
mattered to me a year ago. It will
matter again in a year.
(originally published in Flypaper Magazine, Winter 2018)
In the lips of thunder, we never feel full
as rain slips from our mouths– the brick
streets are slicked with histories we will
not yet slip. Sediment lodged in the curb
will displace in time. Our tongues slicken
in the dry we create so we thirst for the
wet we tried simply to shield from ourselves.
(originally published in The 1932 Quarterly, Autumn 2018)
Relics melt– ardent wisps millions
may they drip. Desert echoes– voices
through throats, landscapes for wing-
spans, sand blown past the horizon.
(originally published in Reality Hands, Winter 2018)
microphone in hand
the gutter of volumetric gain
to finally sing gin (out of the system
sky an ocean of lights)
the star made of you-matter: gold voice hot collision
where bar’s empty souls listening clink glasses
then rise in song to celebrate your living