my palms hold no water
yet i am
a sack filled with rivers
a sack in the river

the looseness
of solid flesh
is unsettling

the sun is wine,
round in my stomach,
shrill in the beaks of birds.

clover muddles your fingers,
muddles your teeth and breath
and skin. you are only
a spot in the trees.
planted among trillium,
stalks thickening your limbs,
my limbs dappled.

i taste summer
all through you.

i entangle myself in the sky,
grasp and tug on breezes,
expect grass to be as thoughtless
as my skin.



i am complete, here,
amongst the feelings of stones,
as april folds me,
intricate, in its madness.

pale lavender half moon
freshly bloodshot whites
dried pearls clotting in your jaw

wobbling on legs
thick with fluid

i cannot clean
this taste
from my mouth

a finger in my mouth:
rough sound from above,
from somewhere in the dark.

my skin wrinkles,
sags around these heavy joints.
i am so much noise.

evening dawns
my hands wander,
unsure of their purpose.

my fingertips bruise
along the imagined
arch of your mouth

i am sorry i never said
anythi
ng wort h mu
ch i’
m sor
r
y