Think of me, Miss Bishop.

The salt and bluster of the Eastern board

I secure my loneliness with safety pins

threaded through the tips of my fingers.

Cotton blooms sift through the bruise

O passion of infinite permitting

Lana woke me by the lake

It is rather dusty in a painter's attic.

The floor blurs the morning

and gives her back to me

I watch each known horizon

crumble like bleu cheese.

Hard feelings don’t take to being caged.

There was a murder at my childhood

playground today.

On days like these,

the rebel trees go dancing

I’ve a capacity for cruelty.

On these days of broken weather,

I know better than to crave

The imps of antiquity hum

in my lungs

I nested them

(soft verses—

The morning’s bakery is a silent one.

He is always

asking questions

You topple yourself,

tumbling crystal

What rampant possibility

in waking before the sun—