Somewhere between the wave’s rise  
and its folding back into itself,   
I felt the salt change weight in my hands.

The water no longer blurred the edges —  threads began to show through the foam, knots glinting like shells in the shallows.

I was still wet with the reading,  
but already leaning toward the loom,   ready to watch the weaving happen.



.

Between wave and return  
       the salt grew heavier in my hands.

Foam thinned to threads,  
       knots glinting in the shallows.

Still wet with the reading,  
       I leaned toward the loom.

the scrolls stare back like a shopfront window
where the mannequins wear my metaphors,
   price tags swinging from their wrists.

           You didn't shake their wrists,

           but I saw it nonetheless—
      tags fluttering away like pale,
    misunderstood butterflies.




.

the scrolls tilt on their shelves
        as the ground shifts,
                   glass trembling

with the weight of heirlooms and
wings—beyond the frost line:
                     a small planet turns,

its orbit tugging at the tags that rise
                         —like butterflies
   from these wrists of stone.




.

cosmic stew
goulash for you
sometimes ghoulish
most assuredly true
so Me-times imbue
quite a flawless fondue

seasonless

           constellation

                          silence

                                   spoken

what bleeds and what belongs?

skin still keeps secrets years on
but it also remembers
how you chose to stay—
even when the red
ran louder than you meant.