how your cerulean skin slides / across the eye, refreshes like the lid / tripped by light, sweat, wind, sex, / / or a speck of mythology settled / in the corneal bed
“One law for the Lion and the Ox is Oppression: Blake is trying to tell you one moral size does not fit all, ya’ll.”
I scrub mouse blood from the floorboards / Imagining ice, / Imagining throats. / The dead stay dead.
"Indoors, each one dwells, indeed, / feeding on the all-knowing glowing, blue- / light glazed, dazed, unmoving . . .
When he arrived, / I pushed him backward into the cold waters of the earth. / We stared at each other through that dark glass, // and I held him there until his eyes closed, until the dead / came into view, until the darkness at the edges of his robes / became fingers reaching for his hem.
light meets a tangle of leathery leaves, / gnarled branches partition the wind, mandibles scissor, cuticle // disappears, debris falls steadily upon the sere understory.
One day with no eyes, no nose, no ears, / another day without a throat, / the skin on your forehead cracking, sinking, / obscuring the wheat field of your reeds.
This is the only creed I’m willing to / say I believe: all church / basement rooms smell of stale / graham crackers, sadness and glue
She wasn't sure about heaven, / but she believed in birds. / On walks she’d stop to watch / a skein of geese
