almost touching the whippoorwill
fear spiralling in my hand
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
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