the grasses that are yellow

the grasses that are green

step out, wet morning air

chilling bones 

metacarpals, tarsals

the falling of skin

into the next season

twisted plasma, yarn 

and hope

the shattered glass
of hope

gleaming in early sun

what you offered forth

was ample but not enough

the fraction of the fraction

of the scientist dying 

in books with metal clasps

and tidy secrets

buried in chests and manila folders

the documents of tax

of the soul

the endless pages blanker

than the blank page

blanker than the gaze

of Greek statues 

the invisible script

laid across your cerebellum

across your eyeballs

dazzled with rejection


corollary sunsets

unmixed gas

the insipid stare of the pursuer

now her feet are warm in her hasten slippers

a shrunken sweater

the milk dripping from her lips

like a cat sucking god

she will go to the farms today

what is in season?

the urging toward life

is deadly


the bare feet

walking by the freezing ocean

the gulls lurking above

like unaware saints

the mystical

call of the ugly deep

that thwacks our knees

with unknowns

terrifyingly unseens

when you step into deep waters

when you step into deep waters


in season