ghost pipes

sweating through the longest day of the year​

winter’s end

tentacles of ice
beside the spring

the millipede’s carnival colors

I forget where I am

sun-drenched spring woods

finding a dead leaf
to wipe my brow

I dreamed the angel of death was a bland functionary

who kept giving me forms to fill out.

Every autumn

I’m impressed anew by the sheer inventiveness of death.

The rain comes hammering on the plush roof of the earth.

on the plush roof of the earth. After a while, it opens one by one its mush rooms.

Grown old and grizzled,

you no longer have to wonder whether her scent is meant for you.

Flowers evolved as clickbait for pollinators.

You won’t believe what happened next.

The white dwarf’s embrace of its black hole partner is so close,

it sends headline writers into hyperdrive. To some, the black hole is predatory; to others, the star is insane. But what if it’s love?

wetlands in winter

I crush another cathedral
with every step

dog in the fog

muzzle swiveling to catch
every scent