acid rain through clay

our men are never finished

our women only begin

our sunset women, our

people of the dusk

our sadder but wiser women

and all folk who yearn to die

who yearn to bleed,

their spirits

like acid rain

through clay

spreading poison

til it sprouts


everything holds a

drop of poison

everything holds

the end

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for nicolle

We listened and we heard in the space between us, a small garden with many new things: curving meridians and underworlds and iridescent dreams, shoulders to chest like a liturgy. One is when we are to


There are moments I remember that even the schools of crickets are multitudinous, and that waiting for the rain makes the sun too bright. I discover new shapes every day: green ones, gold ones, secret


Conversations with Jesus on the front porch. So many worries. That's true, he says. Everything moving by things I can't see. But perhaps, he says, you can. And under it all? You'll remember, he says.