before it was a metaphor First scrape fat from skin, turn to sun what never felt light, in vitriol bathe open wounds, sear to
The ruins of the day—scraps of sun strewn among the hollows of the sand—are soon undone by night’s hand. The way the wind can
These are my ways to walk among moons, a woods of moons, a bright moonarium, a soul scape lit by distant reflection. I count
—Toledo’s Glass Pavilion In this pavilion’s panes, shear material folds like scrolls of light, walls compress air. Invisible pressure. Surfaces reflect trees, the gauzy