I work to the tune of your aurora.
The floor wears away imperceptibly
as a woman whose dreams have
been munched by the wolf in her words.
The tundra of my inexperience thaws.
On the know-it-all breeze,
laughter that grips my heart
like a hand.
When the pollen heard you weep,
you were sainted by the grass.
Your greens, your purples.
Your lilting light that
whips through my space
like remorse.
Your song is dangerous,
damaging.
In the January flame everything
curls to the core to cure the cold.
The drool from your chin gleams
like seraphim.
When you became a hunting dog
in an incomparable cage,
I rose above the earth
like a nuclear cloud.
You’ve been hungry for so long,
my flowers asleep in their
bulbs dream of you as soil,
as a rain of blood.
Gnaw the chain link
and drop yourself as a wind
into the cold.
January burns like a wild
thing on the run.
In the kitchen,
electric suns and a scorched
rain roiling up from the metal
crust like the flood Noah would
not have survived.
Hungry, I still turn away
from the last few seconds
of deserved and unearned life.
My life lays over me like a bib.
What bullets does it block
from my breasts?
Through the window,
filthy afternoon trudges in
from the rails like a hobo.
Every table in the dining room
is set to the music of
scoundrels naming their children.
From the kitchen,
streaming remnants of
finish lines.
Miniature Moon 