are full of hollows and riddled with mines: a geography of loss.
Category: forest
The way my skin cracks in winter
maybe I’ll molt.
Ask a vintner or a fromager:
few things are more festive than decay.
icy road
leaving the car in the care
of the low sun
The forests of my earliest childhood
are evergreen.
Lay me in a fist-sized hole
feathered with rime.
mountaintop pond
the blind dog lapping
at her reflection
Neurons take a dendritic form
to maximize their receptivity to the lightning of thought.
Let’s be honest:
we were adrift long before we were at sea.
What brutal moonlight persisting throughout the day
has convinced us this stillness is meditative?
In the coming chill
we will all have to become subnivean.
What is more subversive than laughter?
Only love. Maybe.
