I’ve kept your chair open on the front porch tipped over in the rain to keep it dry where grateful dead burns by mosquito torch a blue green fire kindled to keep me high on these nights alight, dancing on the bar hips slung, shirt riding up, be

I take a picture of flamboyant trees beforeand after the rain I am that way too subdued true gray only to clatter into reds when storms stop I want to dance around the first fire playing nose flute to the base belly of a bullroarer’smastery of

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my phosphorescent heart wings the yellow finch on its way beyond insect after insect and soon you will sing        physicists are magicians netting quarks and light from the first of time – geologists sq

excerpt from Making Poetry Submissions by Chris Hamilton-Emery # Avoid portentous, weighty titles: “The Succulent Dark of My Fading Time,” “Dread Fires of The Iron Soul,” & Co. are sure to raise the hackles of every edit

a song I thought was silentglistens like scales of fishes still -in the dry country whippedby winter winds wanting toenter windows, my fingerstingle as they point northI wear a dress, magnificently tornpoised on the wingtips of angelsbut no - angels

a blue green bottle fly skips from branch to branchthree times; each twig cradles a dozen drops of dew refracting the last look you gave her – orangingthe dark woods call, if four birds answer, how longwill you stay? forgetting forms, her lines

tis hard to find a hole in the skywhere I am allowed to bea starfish on the floortime wrapping dogs and daughtersnothing to fill the unthinkable wellchildren angry when their roomisn’t cool enough, when I haven’tgiven them the alphabettha