The heads are talking without 

seeing or caring much 

about wind direction 

or how much pepper to add. 

I have some secrets 

that I wear openly 

but no one seems to get 

the codes or the patterns 

like plaid like trios like spirals 

bound to be plated with gravy 

with sides of sparkly faraway 

daydreams wearing corsets 

loosened with teeth by nightfall 

if the mind is willing 

and the flesh bends the right way. 

The moon says yes, please.

Tell me about your spiders,

the worries and triumphs

of their secret corner worlds.

Is there room for us to burrow,

listen to the whispering weave?

The conscious crow 

does not consider 

water on Mars important 

nor whether dogs have souls. 

A crow in the know does not need 

affirmation from strangers 

to feel worthy. 

The crow uses its wits 

almost wholly 

to capture worms.

She sat Indian-style on the barcalounger 

clacking her castanets, singing, 

“what have you drawn me today?” 

He could only watch 

as she twisted and swiveled in the seat 

as if churning butter with her hips 

and he thought about when he had been 

seasick on the ferry

and wished for mountains. 

Now, he had all the heights he ever wanted 

just outside their home 

but could only watch 

his heart twist in a figure-eight pattern 

to the sound of castanets and laughter.

Everything compares to 

a walk in an imaginary meadow 

and though you’d think there’d be 

exceptions, you won’t find any. 

Skin and metal tear apart 

while bones and glass shatter 

making a nice harmony for the wind. 

Butterflies and exhaust fade. 

I have become permeable.