A door jumps out from shadows, then jumps away. This is what I've come to find: the back door, unlatched. Tooled by insular wind, it slams and slams without meaning to and without meaning.
Moonlight and high wind. Dark poplars toss, insinuate the sea.
Brimming. That's what it is, I want to get to a place where my sentences enact brimming.
That's what I want, that kind of recklessness where the poem is even ahead of you. It's like riding a horse that's a little too wild for you, so there's this tension between what you can do and what the horse decides it's going to do.
My tongue remembers your wounded flavor. The vein in my neck adores you. A sword stands up between my hips, my hidden fleece sends forth its scent of human oil.
I am that last, that final thing, the body in a white sheet listening,
