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.
Churning
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.
At the corner of the preserve
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.
It was in winter
I stood alone
near the window
bare and open
silent and grey
waiting just as
sleeping grass
waits
Winter is near
as flowers fade
I am full
aching
to sleep
no. 49
My body is in October.
It’s autumn inside;
things are drying up and wrinkling
but there are vibrant, ripe parts
waiting for frost.
The mood is grim and salacious
and funny all at once.
It’s a time to watch little ones hoard
while I let go tethers holding me to ground.
There’s nothing new but
there are endless ways
to see colors of the world
and rejoice in its patterns
as it falls apart. I feel a kinship with fall.
