and there she is

widows-thrill
or devil's backbone,
some sort of specimen
hog-tied to the sediment

combs her hand
with nails bit past the quick
through her hair
til she thinks there's not one incongruent strand

dragging her feet
down the primrose path
off on the hard way into heaven

I know I'm good for something
I just haven't found it yet

my mind keeps getting snagged,

catching on these fictions,

concoctions –

I see her
in the night
tearing into the undressed hind of the ram
like a fresh-gouged slice of honeydew melon

the pulp of his flesh red,
trickling off the slant of her lips

I think I'd offer her the cimeter
and use of the free oven

but I'm not sure it's the meal she's after

He's between my fingers
in all of the colors
that this gentle light portrays

in the slats of the blinds
that through the shades, the sun shines

a wonder
of a whisper
of a water-wilting ray

I do nothing apart from you

I refuse

Father, ensure I refuse

in every grain of dust
illuminated by the day
He resides

His sweet hello
He waits

and when our star reaches its minimum
throw another piece
of your tender heart in
like fodder, to keep it burning

so we may have a second longer, Father

the cupboards empty

open, close

open, close, open

close

a half sweep out of Alamance
spool me crooked 'round her waist

close, open

close, open, close,

open

I can feel her
bristling, bruising under me
I need it, need her,
need her good to extend to me

open, close

I hold her close
too close
too tightly

wringing cloth
of praise

where can I touch
what gap can I bridge

open, close
close, open

so I'll be an off-branch from her
so closely synonymous
to be held in the same breath

let me in
let me melt into her

until there is no part of me left to drive out

the cupboards empty

open, close

open, close, open, close

open

scared to fall,
but more scared
of never flying,
so i sit at the edge
and wait.