It also has no hands. And no digital flip. It does have a face, but it’s your face, going plaid with wrinkles, your dry

along saffron sands/ a braid of footprints/ as dark as cumin/ ribbon her solitude/ where she swims

Time’s a cliché in our pages./ Or a timeless theme./ Or both./ Four and twenty hours, gents and ladies

They say the pink, dangling manifesto at the back/ of the throat speaking words that often cry

If the universe were as vast/ As the glad imagination of/ A five year old boy drawing/ Dinosaurs at his kitchen

Buried in a black robe/ Keeping her head down/ She enters the classroom/ Like a dark cloud

I stood in awe/ hearing unseen things;/ the wind spoke, hissed,/ and scratched my door.// I grew frightened

As it happens/ early on// the following morning/ we escape/ within a small boat// into the mountains

Parchment severs/ the high drifts of morning/ as fire’s keen grasp/ only begins/ to subside./ Over retching

A crisp-rind new moon/ slices open old memories/ that bleed out starlight.// Walking over snow

Swallowed by the sick fluorescent glow/ of a computer screen all day,// I stare at my supermarket lilies—

How do you hold, Sphinx/ into your desert eyes/ Beholden I take a look/ at my pupil/ Blackness

Mere minnow laid low/ Pulled over to the peak/ Demeaning found core full/ Moon milk lit sky stood

We wanted to climb Mt. Ampersand but/ that day, the day we had set ourselves/ the goal not just of

Usually on a dining room chair,/ occasionally amid a field of grass,/ a few times in a moving car/ and one

i feel that aching moon/ pulling my recreation/ letting go of that sweet lament 

Would that I could wear this rural green,/ the July soybeans tone on the distant hills,/ the green needles

Soft sopping mizzle/ on dusky gloom of window pane// thunder creases somber covers on

Creamy-butter amber spills through/ the thick window blinds to drip inside/ in heavy beads, the colour

Electrons whirring buzzing/ orbiting around much larger/ protons and neutrons.// Positively charged protons