you never have enough
uses for “thistle,” which is
too like the thing itself
you never have enough
uses for “thistle,” which is
too like the thing itself
If you squint the sun
reaches its tentacles of
rainbow straight out
at the gate’s
rusty swing, I nearly pictured,
she’s home
because I mistook
a wind-blown, empty chip bag
for a crawling bird
rain too quiet
to be heard—mouthing
gray prayers
a cut rope lay
in fragments—hours
denying others
faces doubled and
facing themselves—another
mirrored sun flashing
hold it, didn’t you
leave the last peach
for me?
waiting for shadows
to invite sleep—the moon
is on its own
for the first few steps
you can’t tell whether earth
or you moves