Visions were fine enough / but it was loneliness, in fact, / that they really wanted from me.
Sometimes a sickness comes over me, / As though life itself withdraws, / And leaves behind a fragile shell
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 . . .
