You’d swear an egg / cracked ever so gently, the white seepage, / yolk rivered to your ears.
Dear lady / of the eight legs, dame / of dry wit and outsize determination / descend / your self-spun line / and hear us.
It came to be widely believed that we were Something’s experiment, in which case the stars and the trees and the grass and the birds knew everything we wished to know.
Let’s drink to / what can be socketed, shadow / to wall, mouth to an ear. The moth / still on the windowsill is only / / a little death.
I see nothing can stand beneath my feet but the solemn / and lovely earth, the molten fire within it, cirrus rags above.
Neither God, nor God’s Manifestation in Flesh / Resembles a vending machine along the side of an untraveled road, / Almost covered in kudzu.
My pagan hands, capable enough for this task of packing / away glass birds and painted wooden stars, / have again proven too clumsy to hang onto you. / I hear the whispers. No matter how gently / I remove the ornaments, showers of needles rush to the floor.
