Sunlight floods the loft, barn chaff explodes into the summer heat, a sparkling vapor spirals into roof-beam shadows. A day’s work dazzles, won’t settle, floats upward, a flood of particles [Subscribe]


The coffin where I keep my dead words is open. The jewelry box, pink like young skin, where I store trinkets is shut. The ballerina inside her pink tutu face down on her footed spring, waits for the hand that opens her. She must be tired, always rising [Subscribe]


Who will make Your long bed, Smooth your grass quilt, fluff your stone pillow? Who will tuck the dry dirt under your chin, sing in my place in the songless night under bright dots of light in the dark, curved sky, sing Willow? Sing Willow. Sing Willow.


I ask the tree to register Me and it stings— What for…? Some ridiculous itch Nibbles, hails hate Hiding plain, insight A twitching Claw-gripped pendant Fixed against its Bark lapels. A glimpse and this Network exposed, An almost Ancient urge to lick or for A loam and petrichor Scent, s’il…