into the woods

what fresh horror’s red balloon

Floatation devices

Fully half of my Instagram followers now appear to be sex workers…

slow to escape the stink of snowmobiles

the field feeds its owl

whose snow drifts

crossing paths with a sparrow

my tracks vanish

exploring all sides of a boot print

a powerline’s procession of crosses

for once I remember a dream

between the sirens serenity

where the internet ends creaking in the wind