Renounced Pollen Returned to the Datura Plains
The miasma was asleep, barbed data describing its brain to the weather
in a numb wildflower. We sang Have a Good Storm until egret seedlings
relearned their wiring from the watts of a startled grave. I had hurts.
Had lost soil. But these grasses. Those geese.
The Era of Redacted Foxes
The sky fled. It was always raining in the next room. The ceiling slept
beneath nervous grasses.
Geese under a tree. Then mountains then clouds then sky. And the eye,
a very clear eye. Do you see a beak?
Duet for the End of Space
The moss was acting exactly like the sky. The day the miasma divided,
The mirages all dried.
The ocean in a jellyfish. The sky in a cloud. The storm in a worm. The
flies in a squirrel's fur. The fences in a horse. The science in an axe.
The apricot in an alphabet. The mind in a minnow. The fire in an
orchard. The hours in a bee. The bandage in a branch. The hand in a
harpoon. The dying sea in a signature. The tiny wars in a sleeping fox.
The vowels in a wildcat. The despair in New England. The despair in
Indiana in a road in a dying deer. The endocrine system in an anxious