Blue tulips in April are mine.I have claimed them all as my own.I allow them to cleave the groundyou watch them grow from,every act of agriculturea wayward rebellionbeneath a forgiving sun. I am at this moment the devil’s giftat communion, the air you takeas you swallow bread and wine. Divine is the art you attemptwith blades and vases, an army of colors,when the only one that concerns me...
Pink wet robin, a baby perchedon the end of a shoe,plucked right back into the nest,to be rejected if the oils on my hand aren’t too human. The alchemy of milk into caramel,a shifting of weight on linoleum. When the power finally cuts offthere’s a triangle of steak, a folded slice of bread, and beer. Wings sit in the back of geometry class.Mother of pearl at this angle, bending at the knee,she...
The careful moment I pull the trigger and the buck skips a short dash, its last. How a rack of antlers resembles the bars of a small cage, and the warm lifeless body requires that one empty the entrails here along the edge of the wood, a strip of knife along the belly, the carcass now something more appropriate in weight to struggle to the truck. On the way out, a clearing of buttercups and a...