what we are comes of chance collisions,encounters with flotsam—offal and plums floating in a flood of language     we choosewhat remains—the fantastic: your coat a sail on the icy pond, you whooping and flyingon your s

Winter’s white cremation—from its quietusshoots arrow-tipped croci. She greets this bedof nails sprung from the ashes of the elements,from anger and lust              &

if all were kept at the point of questions:silver smelts slipping between legs,spring waters rushing upriver        momentum tosses her   into whitewater and nets—she reddens her lips with bites