that the brushes on the bottle-brush bush could not be redder, that a hummingbird looks in through the window screen, that both my arms
In the bowl, cobalt-blue, you collect each spilled pebble, imposing order against his going. On the table, stacked just so— Mandelstam, Hopkins, Plath,
I am sick of the dialectic of hunter and prey, baiting traps with peanut butter while you find secret passageways inside my cupboards. What
Anyone might look down and in a Rorschach moment see birthmarks or bruises. Anyone might see budding periwinkle or a mother’s face jutting from