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

touching myself

dreaming of aliens again, shit,
and then, i’m convinced
that they block my thoughts from processing it
do you know what i mean?

it’s not like i’ve heard before:
where you’re drawn up into the sky
and everything they’ve got is white and smart
instead, my eyes are open and i’m
sitting in jason’s truck
and the seatbelt isn’t that,
it’s the leg of a child
wrapped around my waist
hairless and tan, with smudged feet
and it’s piggybacked on me

i kind of start and turn
sloshing my head from side to side
i do it so i can’t see
but the car is crawling with eyes
that’s just how it feels
that’s the thing they don’t want you
to talk about
is how they just show these things to you
but they’re already in me





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

who do i look like now,
silent in the tightly-nerved mouth
quiet, staring at the face in water

as central as the bedchamber,
conduit to the other half of mind
where i tread down love’s needled hillside

what goes in does not come out
thoughts strewn are sheets kicked,
and rage, the dormant companion to
sensitive touch and loveliness

the pleasure of conversation
for us to brood, even still,
expires in white
the whole spirit scalded

who do i look like now,
in the water,
contractions in the neck and jaw
say nothing of grace

and pride is a mouth
that talks only
what a mirror has thought out
and cannot disprove the presence of the face

you and me

we, like flies
emerged from birds of paradise

swarming at the sea
and no way of leaving
between and neither

i find
i’ve got nothing to say unless
i am calling your name
in jest, or earnest

separated, we are strewn out
with the eagerness, calling
to turn each other
over with our mouths

i must
look like you, some ways
full of eyes,
a grin that carries the grimace short behind,
a likeness, blunt as our dumb face

you and me
the harbor to the island
hopeful counterpart
we believe its purpose