misty morning I redraw the world with one black pen
slowly fading the snow capped ridge of my scar
floating down the river you have to start somewhere
so many masks in a day between animal clouds
green apples words of power for the old computer
superstition the small wings of sparrows
how I study to spell fluorescent smoke rises
seagulls circle and cry high above the empty mall
whispering to spiders echoes of my father’s sarcasm
a sweet thing to say in the dust insect parts
another dimension of my moan straight lines of salt
faint drizzle remembering grandma’s vocabulary
he long turn of my dream the future still an egg
the sound of my neighbor’s shower morning cool
a blur of fan blades the dog star rises
crumbling brick we never got a good look at the monster
chill of air conditioning a dream of many spiders
another grey hair in the deep corridors of clouds
the orchid slowly grows again the heat from my laptop
the river’s flow and rush Whitman’s grass
her sigh and crickets on the cool breeze
the full pink moon drops into the dawn of a bad habit
midsummer uphill both ways
for each spice I use the catbird finds a new voice
waiting for the fan to pass again the carpet too red
sugar in the breeze I dissolve into stars
a band-aid stuck to the cracked pavement the heat
summer clouds the bright white pages of the book I didn’t read
slow turns of black wings alone in all this sky
severe storm warning I carefully fold the morning
spent my days traveling time and the mockingbird
under my fingernails the unending song of clouds
even though I wrote it down the butterfly stays
the air conditioner drips onto my sleepless eyes
I cough the scent of clover in the cool morning
the pill I have to swallow at twilight sparrows still chirping
so many colorful feathers cling to the crushed bones
waves break beneath my skin the beginning of fire
banking hard to chase a crow training wheels come off
on the rough soil of the sea so many words corrode
a few petals hanging on the game I wanted to play
fine rain a new post code in the city of the dead
sticky heat my soles black with mulberries
September cobwebs in the kettle
between dusty syllables light from ancient stars
what is still allowed among the soft curves of cloud
a week of travel over my leaky sink in the setting sun
a row of birds still in the sun before the dark hills
my neighbor rattles his lock and leaves thunder
sun gleams off car horns and chlorine in the breeze
no reception at dawn I slowly embrace an unwanted freedom
almost bent in half on the lawn an old woman eats a peach
letting go it swims to the deepest part of the river
deep in the bones of my toes the wedding songs of toads
the sound of gulls bisects the awkward love triangle
other animals 