Why is it this year that the familiar warbler songs sound like dripping blood or fabric being torn?
Where did it come from, this premonition that someday I will be parted from my head?
with my cellphone camera
stalking the sky
alone in the forest her green shawl
a drop of rain for each newborn leaf
red appendages born-again maple
the angels didn’t fall they were pushed
one garlic head’s green tongue
a face pressed against the train window
lost in the small hairs of hepaticas
an oak tree’s newest mouth
will the circle be unbroken