this is a wing. it was woven on Wednesdays. we wore it when Whim woke us early for Wren’s Ways. this is a moon. it was molded on Mondays. my grandmother made it to manage the sun’s maze. these are the gifts…
i was once bird-born and drank from a well; then i was a fountain and had more than youth or age to offer, more than truth or falsity to tell. now i’m co[mpou]nductor and organic s[ynth]olid, and i’m rolled over fibers and…
a sandgrain salts the lion’s rosary, renders him wraith on an endsummer night: Monday, 2:16am, when silent reflections recoil by reflex into sovereign’sight. minky starshine phrases the air into a sanguine vexation, ’til the requiemix sets the five-year eve free by the…
one sky is a measure, grown smaller by the city and the sitting in a stillnessurrounded by motions of metal among masses married to the illness they are marred by, one they’ve carried into higher and higherises—but clouds are not brought closer…
my oldest friend, there’s a vent behind the library where the homelessometimes sleep. when it’s daylight you can look down through the grate to darkenedeep. at night, in the colder seasons, steamist builds there into billows, and all the huddled indistinct pull…
her tail twitches once, and then lies still as the chill of the morning air, as centered as her slitted stare. she’s heard the squeak and seen the probing paw. one hindleg shifts one half one inch; one claw slides from its…
she’s a girl who knows the right time for bricks. she’s got a bag of concrete, and she needs no other tricks. aggressively near-naked is her uniform for warring—she spent enough time dressing up when she was newborn, low-built, boring. she’s got…