“killing box Garden”

                                orange wrist            timber               temp


gold       leaf                                       painted change




                                                       september death                     death september     

                  covered in

feathers                                                                      flowers from the

                          hands      of dead

                                                                                                     children        roses


                              m                           my face       it’s

                                                                                                hands    were    lover’s

not mine                                  

                                if I ever                    a



                        iris      replaced              with one

                                                                                                                     odd batch

                                                                 of larkspur

                birch  legs       a tea


                                                                        fable                                              clove

                                                                                                                          n                                                                                 walls an ivy place                          

                                                                                                                           lead trees


                                               pulation                 organic things

                                                                                                        die a

                      while                                   I knew a

                                                                             snapdragon                         by the shape               of her/


                                                 beautiful                   danger


                                she taste

                                                d                                    lovely bell flowers


                  underfoot                            mixing mugwort                     daughter brew

lupine feat

                          ure                              modern witch wisteria                yellow

hist/or/y                          hysteria to

                                                                                              be feared

                   not of this wood                        but

                                                                            of                an other                species

flor / a

fau / na

                          aspen    brine            ground change

                                                                                            ling             spines           

                                                                                                                                     their little

                 faces                               en

                                                                 cased in stone                  

                                what horrific

                                                                  eyesight                                                                              using

a spyglass

to set the                                                                                  fire to the ivy

                                     concentrate on what you

                      can’t see                                              can see

                                        outside your window

                                                                                     runn ing to catch                 my lover’s


                            jade butter                                     in my hands

                                                                                     in my hands                        an amaryllis

                                                                                                                                          heart                    my lover’s

                                 changeling lover                               I am

                                                                                         I am                                          that snap


                                                                                                             I knew

“The Looking Church”

It is raining and there is a phoenix on the street corner selling tickets

To a show no one will ever see his red plumage scattered at his feet

While his neighbor the hound avoids his own tawny complexion in

The mirror a group of ibex run past with branches cradled over their

Heads startling twenty-three conspiracy pigeons and one assassin cat 

The badger behind the wheel of an expensive beetle with silver horns

Locked together with a short orange giraffe suffering from a mad god

Complex she won’t ever make the front page run by some sort of scarab

Cult and their fascination with spiders and their snatched snip politics

Printed off the hides of the pups who lived in that alley once upon a time

It is raining and there is a peacock carrying too many feathers in her arms

To the office where she is devoured by asking blue eyes and unwanted

Claws in another block a fox slipping an emerald into her coat pocket

She’ll sell it to that jackrabbit the white one covered in gold body glitter

Living above a deli with druggie bluegills and their grey water cameras 

The lonely black bear sitting on that empty stoop his ears cropped to

Perfection once upon a time but now limp like the old sloth too slow for

Change who was gobbled up by that tricky adder in the city’s basement

While the weasels stood on their hind legs and watched with petty grins

As a sparrow pushed a stroller past a group of smoking leather stallions

It is raining and the flamingos go to school with their ballet shoes they all

Look the same at least in a cluster the neon panther hurrying them along

While a raven flies overhead her talons filled with love notes from her

Lover a pretty quetzal more queer than she is cousins with the lion who

Rents downtown in a flat made of skin and stolen yellow beehives.

“A Different Kind of Light”

His heart aches,

she’s losing her feathers.

A peacock,


and green.

Her wing is broken.

The sun tries to help,

the moon gets in the way.

They can’t be together.

She’s missing her crutches,

made of someone else’s collarbone.

There’s a ring on his finger.

He won’t sleep tonight,

all those blinding lights,


in his head.