the cat’s bowl

under the ofrenda
the sound of teeth

spring cleaning

a heart made of yarn
gives up its dust

tunnel vision

the darkness returning
each of our words

the elf in myself

no one’s watching

morning fog

woken by a text
about birds

Lenten moon

the trees must store these shadows
somewhere deep

first bifocals

the blurry line between
winter snd spring

New Year’s day

some leftover darkness
in my mug

shapes in the clouds

a lone kayaker raising her phone

lost time

the scarab remembering
its wings

I dreamed a giant silk moth fluttered into a museum

and joined its life-like relatives on the wall.

I place myself

on the Underground map uneasily, wondering how such ideal points and lines can add up to anything resembling the surface.