After Sylvia Plath The bushes are laden, draw my blood with their thorns. To find sweetness or at least some nourishment, Find sweetness before
My daughter quivers across from me at the table. A teabag leaks its copper blood. A clock’s ticking in the wordless air. She is
I walk the open palm of hills where my friend will check his hives. On this dry summer day all is a soft palette
There are holes in the night’s fabric, a memory of carrying grapes from fields where wood pigeons foraged. In the distance, a star