Lepidoptera,
what a pretty word for  
not quite birds,  
not quite angels,  
not quite bugs,  
not quite devils.  

Their scales are faint,  
carrying the weight  
of shifting tides  
across the world
or maybe  
even the rocks  
where the aliens sleep.  

Ah,  
Lepidoptera,
what a pretty word  
to hold the fear  
of an ever-changing universe.

I know you are gone  
but the wind curls around me,  
slides under my clothes  
to tickle at bare skin.  

Sun rays caress my face  
in the same way you used to  
pet stray cats.  

Rivers yell and crash  
when they run,  
like us
hand in hand  
when we were young.  

I know you are gone  
but I will always hang on  
to the fleeting existence of you.

hapless devotee,  
willing to sacrifice bread crumbs  
for a taste of mercy  
from some Body you’ll never meet.  

you remain on your knees,  
despite the digging of the roots  
of the tree you cry beneath.  

the pebbles make you bleed
there’s lacerations under your sleeves
you're wailing at your incapability

say, pitiful creature,  
why are you still
on your knees?

turn off the big
light
the cand
le ts lay toge
ther e will be no
space betweenus
we will catch fir
e mbraced together

fire hour
no sand in the hour
glass in my
eyes are          blacktooblacktooblacktooblack
             (calm)
     glass. there is no
sand in the Hour

each word that stings
is carved into skin
the termites
gnawing your bones
make new friends:

horror
and fear

of being
human has-beens
who hide behind
glass eyes
sliced skin
like
humanesque
empty tins