A whiff of camphor—
it’s my tenth summer and
I’m food for chiggers
A whiff of camphor—
it’s my tenth summer and
I’m food for chiggers
Last night, tricky sleep
left a vase and no flowers,
a pitcher of air
When the first leaves fell
the trees reached harder—and now
they pose as themselves
Out of the ink
an octopus—arms flowing
rivers of night
A drunken moon
stumbles through littered skies
scanning snow’s blank page
It’s seven, and still
time enough to mill about
waiting to be born
Ice in the lake
rolls in waves—jigsaw pieces
in an earthquake
Broken icicles—
fingers of winter lost by
holding on too hard
Endless revision—
snow repaints the street white
with another coat
Black trunks and brambles—
every forest falling
between walls of night