In those wild woods, poison sumac
would distance one from active tracks–
jagged moan, trembling steel, cerulean sky
waiting for your call: an endless horizon,
a warbler singing quietly
into night.
(originally published in Every Writer, Spring 2017)
In memory of Chris Hull
friends don’t
wait for rainy days
to die
there is never
a metaphor
in the weather
the sun laughs
as it always does
when I receive the call
I find the nearest tree
to brace myself
with shade
it’s the only darkness
seventy-six degrees
warm breeze
the car
approaching the hospital
still takes her living
to work
at being alive
(originally published in Muddy River Poetry Review, Spring 2017)
slackened falls into chaos: each plod
a sobering imprint on snow
buzzing cavernous hearts
white honey swathes the air
the dewdrop pale of her shirt, arms curved
from the door in bent-seven candles, icicled
waxen breath hissing this
is the moment sculptured to ice:
a future with gluey trees barren at night,
tongues born licking telephone poles
static moments stretched to angel hair
feel like rare dreams caught in dim light
(originally published in Scarlet Leaf Review)
when the twine grays, know
there is still a lettering
shaped in your glossed spiral.
I gargle Listerine your name
to the thrum of the galaxy
lodged in my throat,
there forever
behind my wolf teeth,
a song alongside you.
(originally published in Revolution John)