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


june is hungry

drinking milk
on mother
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