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



i set a playlist of animal sounds to random
and the frogs do little for her,
but the grunt of apes cause her to pause and stare
at the bare wall
she keeps staring off to the right for awhile
ears forward, blind

but when the big cats come
that pair of ears split
one forward and the other backward, to a twitch
but she returns to the gentle tending of her paw, anyway

Wood of the Self-Murderers

my first yawn observed by the leaves eyelets
afloat in the crosshatch of taut arms
with rivulets waiting to cave with patient sap

when down strained through the covey wood and passed
down through gummy necks snagging
down with each limb drawn to a snap

the wind runs my tumbling head
apart I am revealed the sinking seed
the fragment which contains entirety


low to the ground
and keen to breathe you through my mouth

spilling along the bottom of the doorway
printed on towels, handles, and sheets

it crescendos down through hallways
missing you now and pacing

interpreting your times:
either like the eager beating of the thrush
you’ve been
or, the complacent pulse of the nest hen

you are home, i know first
by your smell
brimming by warm cultures

those bottoms of your feet
when you have gone long walking and
in your genitals as you sit
such long hours on top of them

every inhalation
deeper lost in me
the equator calls
becoming me somehow

low and heavy near the ground
the keeper of your smell