What use in you you wrong wrought wood
what bevel escaped its key. A mandible
beyond its prey an arrow all shaft in each
one its torso oddly pierced and tails that spring
like thistle weed a root that wears a vacant stay
and tacky to the touch its itch to form a place
gone red with
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In Portraits in Seasons
As a feral thing would. As a dead leaf
whose crunch she herself hears, whose
buggy interior floods the sidewalk. Beamy
the world, yet a blank all the same.
Where you’ve tucked your pen into your notes,
I tuck my fingernail, burned and cursed and
shut tight my eyes. I tuck my feet up like a girl.
In this corner, warm milk fall of light something
far from revealing its bone-blank eyes, that is,
the eyes downcast in every portrait, shaded
the ribbon a bright blue furl across the gaze,
the peculiar mother, her arm around a naked toddler
the fall of light. Betrays nothing. The book in
hand, betrays. As a feral thing would,
I shred its binding and burn through it for warmth.