one taste

does moonmilk quiver on every lake
you wade
because the whole world tastes like you now
umami and lychee slick

all
changing hands
to spin and push me from 10 directions
yours

the throats that sing and swallow me, yours
the world imagined in this electric lock, yours

I feel each fall of footsteps
called to the night

if you can read my light, dive

 

 

how much a muse

I wonder if he reads invisibles
combs documents for things only sensed
extra spaces left careless before paragraph

breaks my own meticulous
after running my fingers through mist
smooth untangle hard to grasp gifts
laid out like linen for him lacking

does he translate as poorly
let fall finer for press of flesh
ordinary profane undone mundane

muse or does he hold space
flight for paper planes freeing light what
cannot be folded into words and my body
weightless if he breathes

 

 

March for the Conquered

none of us can witch the springs of our oppression like this
heat extracting the search from our eyes
air still and quick like tempers in the summer of too many

months blowing out the details in a white burn
sunstare of easy answers so hot
toxins like cadmium yellow stain the treasures of true bonds

don’t let the day fool you, its chain falls off nightly
then fumble fingers find knots intimately tied held hold hold
when thunderheads scare off the season, with rolling clouds

run