hair

hair, curious
even my uterus is filled; the egg slid
to a current, and caught tenderly
couched to a bed of cilium
which waves and falls, shedding down
the breasts a kind of anemone
and each night, coming out
the bird takes locks to nest
there is no identity, there is
only correspondence with adaptation

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june is hungry

drinking milk
on mother
late-afternoon
hung up to her shoulder
my muddy bulbs looking over
this stirring summer
even blades gentled green
a living cantankerous thing
hungry, keep drinking
a curious june
held to july’s shoulder
she turns down
the pinched tip
milk to rinse the flower