Makeshift trees
Conceal the emptiness of space.
I am removed from nature’s skin
As crust from an eye.
Too often I have peered
Over my back fence for
A better view
No one should see that much
We are startled giants
With weak hearts
Space rolls over its
Grassy base
There is no room for
A thing that watches
Yet a big eye cleans
The back of the world
With lashes
the thing with Mondays
is –
they lie
that eternal weekend
lives in its shell
at a deeper level of
sea than you’ll ever go-
tethered to the busting
waves by an insipid Monday
There is no compassion
in industry.
you will always be desperate
in the tidal pools,
the diving suit you live in
desperate for elsewhere
Friday,
In his flippers and goggles
Does not exist.
The gold thread holding
Leadership’s hammock
Is fraying like my personality.
I put my star-spangled mouth
On my husband’s face
with no aim.
His breath cascades over my
Neck.
Everyone on our street
has a laundry room but me
Our little girl wears old
Onesies and roller skates
in the shower.
The emperor has clothes.
He just doesn’t want us
to see them.
like a mathematician
he subtracts us one by one
where I go, my husband goes
his breath locked onto
my hips.
I take a bath with a
Blue haiku –
The fewer the words
The more July the language.
So much steam.
I am a puddle in a pool
In a pond.
When I evaporate
No one notices.
Not even me.
I rise to the brevity
Of language and
Citric summer
Consecrate energy,
Obey the demand.
You travel a million matters
From your source.
Letters overtake me,
Solid empty book that I am.
U kisses me,
I abuses me.
Synchronicity of text makes
My whole story work together
Like a glass machine.
But it isn’t about me.
Book of uneditable extractions.
Why do I like being alone?
Cast iron smells hellacious.
Voices are diggers,
And my skin is soft.
Victims hiss when
Their yoke is sucked
From their mouths like a breath.
Spare me the torture
Of day sailers
And night sailors.
I am coming to a stop within me.
No cracker
Ever tasted so neat.
Calligraphy of rain,
Gentle messages stolen from a cloud,
A mother sacrificing her life
For future generations of mothers.
Spilling overtures of relief go door to door
To every blade of wheat.
Only the scavengers will go hungry this year
The advertisement promised diligent bread.
The sort of thing that will eat for you
While you bask prideful in a fashionable,
Contemporary hunger.
The world loves you as it loves itself.
That’s why it wants less of you, Dear.
Of course.
Don’t doubt.
Pout.
There is a new job coming,
To be done by someone else.
What does the light ray feel
Falling to her death on
My skin?
When the end is near
She does not perceive darkness
Where she is, the dark is not.
When she is gone
She is cancerous trash
The heat is her child
And will move on
To other mothers
Maybe she feels what I do
When I close my eyes
Wilted.
Miniature Moon 