oh, to behold even this landscape
with painterly eyes—
a blight of trees, maybe,
but that does not answer
what questions i have for
their fractaling branches.
birds alight there,
weightlessly, knowing why.
so these are the lungs with which
the earth breathes.
this canvas stretches far further than
atlas, who bears
only the sky.

seaward **;
not a soul remains.

i am half-formed as an unmade bed,
flesh and warm roiling blood
not yet fed
through someone else’s veins.
quickly: shall i become
sea or sand?

my business is with
the harbor tonight.
would that i could
forget how to swim.