Fire
She has a dandelion seed in her hair. He has a stem in his hand, turns to me and says, “This is like a microphone,” and starts singing and then he flings it away— ...
Read MoreWater
The lichens come up easily in my teeth, and the bits of stone stuck to them don’t bother me. My face is a curtain of rain, it sinks into the ground where I see insect nymphs starting to crawl, and I am to them a warm fragrance, milk in the soil. When I rise in the air, songbirds fly through me, sharp wings against naked flight. I borrow leaves from the trees to wear, but they lick me clear; I drop as dew, again biting the lichens, bitter green...
Read MoreEarth
In my bed, I am wrapped in stones I hear a train blowing its whistle the middle of the night I roll toward the train and it listens to me the rails don’t list are straight as anything the back of my head is toward the night-window ...
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