the poorer possibilities:
you fucking crazy, Tulip?
Know what they would do to us?
the garden of all that is and is
it is almost too much so so much
the cattail dream and the banks
where we dried like drowned children in sun
there were finally flies remarking sadly
and for once remarkable fires in
soul and then the backsling? Happy harps,
me no more lady, no more moth that mothers
on fire in the hickories and ghosts that won’t be tethered
the (hell with) you and the high tide you rode in on.
you were the wind
apart apples and
sky was your eye
things to happen
in a hotel bathroom
I’ve been driving days
night’s corral, it seems
only the landscape changes
my face my elm ash what’s that.
a sky does to and does.
live my fiction: mornings when nothing matters:
vespers and missives and
desperate miles in the dusk.
heart guns and guns. I
stumbled into being,
might as well stumble through it.