Watching Some Thing Careening Toward Somewhere

It is so impossible to fight
when your tips
are so veiled. I want to hi-jack

the process, suck
the stem’s meat,
and leave the husk—
a hurdle.



Who is Possibility?
Who is Limit? What windows
are made for knocking
with rocks and wishes?

I’m always asking questions.
It’s a rhetorical flourish.
Better left to those with interlocutors
that may search for answers—
that may scrawl answers.

Blushed Pale

The blushing blood rushing to the surface grasps harder when set on gray and green. My darling. How sick. I sold you under-cooked chicken and sugarless gum. I told you it was raw, organic, free, and home on the range. Imagine tufts of feathers playing with deer and cantaloupe. No, leave the feathers out. Imagining this meat with movement and body warmth can churn a city stomach. Don’t worry; it’ll all be up and over soon.