The all-around view was brambles in a weaving of tree-twigs some like beaks when infant-feeble spring is late in April’s cradle under a vast
After the barely averted disaster—the plane dropping on stuck wings down the thin cliff of cloud— skewing to the airport’s red homing eye before
She’s the windowpane greasy bloom of dust on the glass stunned bird in the dirt splayed in the space between this world (clocks and
Undressing night sky— chamomile petals orbit the mud hut Your metal womb All our hopes, enough sausage—to go with the moon