notes for a poem, and all the feathers i’ve found at my feet within the last month.



a clutch of thick / lilac at the entrance, woven / silver bowl, stone / fruits. water poured runs / it through. two / webbed coals glow. / from them: sturdy white / hyacinths. a breath in; / call back your own iron / fillings. an exhale mutates / them: gems drop piling. / ribbons wind back the spine’s / spool. all walls anointed hyssop, myrrh.



Heralds, augurs

For four years, I receive dead birds. At my door, at my feet, in my exact path. I have no cats. There are no cats around. Cats are not bringing me the birds. The birds exhibit. Show me they’ve perished, roll forth a narrative in last action and symbol.

CW: Images- dead birds Read More »

How something can be that’s not yet

Wait each new moon,

make burn lists. Bury after

light; barefoot push the shovel.


Pull earth up, skies down in self

and recall — make minerals of you;

an iron in clouds yields the site.



^  A trifle for the new moon & crooked-mouthed realizing it’s no-joke-too-late for a convent.

Jacaszek playing, and Richter’s Iconography; the latter always the black drive to high desert in snow storm; the only car on the pass and sensation of leaving the Earth.