what strange material


we could disassemble the black
cut the mantle to pieces


yet, everything looks like it is dying, keeps looking for


a mortar for cloth and beetle wings
iridescent powdered plumage


turquoise, for damaging skin


a mark
to remember better times, for worse


times past weaving weavers leaden tongues
these tongues


de-sexing the virtue in -


you look at me as a stranger
I, the mirror of you


there is a fire in the house
it is too much for saying


no one pays any mind to the muffling of small birds