In the passivity of April,

I am a moth whose eyes

are stapled open all day.

I am enveloped by an ecstasy

I don’t comprehend,

steeped in the object of my

desire like an herb in tea.


The dying woman flips on her light.

I am unimpressed.

Analog Grass

A swift zephyr

makes a wake through

the slobbering air.

Finally sober,

the bluebells cover their

naked blue.

What is it about a field in July

that the soul vacates the

body at the sight of it?

Somewhere my digital life,

a harried and unmastered thing,

whines for my eyes and fingers,

my writhing agency.

But here the analog

grass whispers in the heat

“We will always outnumber

your people.”