lost faces
line up outside my dream’s
casting agency
lost faces
line up outside my dream’s
casting agency
one tangerine
keeps a white bowl of a world
from floating
close to night—
in lumped snow, I imagine
a swan
wooden castles pulse
red and collapse in ash—
a separate hell
nearly napping—
brown eels coiling under
thin ice
wrapping paper
blows by—skin still the shape
of a body lost
the regular
ringing of bells—wild suspense
soon wrung out
half-turned,
a dim face locking eyes
through our reflections
no snow—
a dusting too fine to sift
too listless to stay
mistaking
a note from a hermit thrush
for a squeaky hinge