Green Linden Press

Wing  


What matters is to be
and to keep on being.
What matters is to be
inside the bath of your
own life when the bath
bomb expresses itself
through a chemical
reaction. You know
how it works but that
does not negate the joy
of it working. What
matters is to identify
the wing that must have
fallen from the bird
of you, if you were to be
air-hung. Blue-tinged,
surfing through grass.
What matters is to be
the wave when you’d
rather be the drowning.
What matters is to be
the wave when you
too need to be greeted.
What matters is to draw
up the floor plan and
to assign the rooms
to whomever you cut
from magazines and
provide new lives.
Intimacy is great yes.
Even it has been invented.
Can thus be tweaked. Made
better to work.

Bury          


That the three crabs were dead already 

when the girl gathered them 

when the girl named them Eeny, Meeny, and Miny Mo 

evoking choice as fundamental 

when the girl asked them if they wanted 

to live under her bed 

when the girl gave them an answer 

and the mother noticed a smell 

and the mother evicted 

Death gets to decide 

the girl learned 

though in truth she couldn’t have kept them 

either way 

she shouldn’t have kept them 

The lip of shore wore them like piercings 

The girl idolized the sea 

A perfect little fan 

A shell-mimic 

Made of herself an autograph book 

Gave the full page of her body 

for that signature 

At least then she would always

have the sea of herself to touch 

to love 

How to find that page 

How to find that book 

The body’s library large 

and largely unstewarded 

The wrong things catalogued