This is what happens as soon as I stop walking, my daily habit: I become habitat.
when did the back of my hand turn strange?
this dream of endless mountains
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