It is black.  You are an acrobat, flipping,

forming, slick as a blade of grass.

Outside, it is gray.  My tongue unrolls

dry, a limp flag in the storm’s eye.

My wrist, my face puffs.  Biscuits.

I lay here sucking the thick syrup

that makes the walls curlicues, snakes.


A ladle lays in the bowl of the sky.

This is the only light above the wheat,

the sound of cold steel freight

barreling north into a pinpoint.  Inside,

the lamp is an inchworm yawning.

I sit under sixty watts sipping darjeeling.

The sack of tea leaves floats, yolk in the mug.


The sycamores are successful strippers.

Naked, they shudder through the fringe

of my bangs.  The new moon has no breast

to leak its milk onto branches.  They stay

dark strands of hair, frozen mid-jump.

They have no sap.  Like parasites of the ground,

they wait for mercy.  For spring’s juice.



Photo By: LadyDragonflyCC