Poetry

Too lots these lights. Bats can't do their gnat trick bit ...

That time keeps on slipping slipping slipping into the future isn't true strictly speaking.

And what did they write with their iron styli, what complaints carve into his scholar skin by order of the Emperor ...

When, at 1:00 am, our neighbor rises for his nightly ritual, plinks a bit ...

Hawk's hooked beak clips Rabbit's spine, clips her screech.

I dreamt not long ago a rattler come sliding through the grass slow as digestion.

This world is a garden fearfully made ...

The soul of my cat in the rise and fall of her breathing ...

Did I know, setting out, anything other than one foot after the other on this rocky landscape of twisted ankles and slithering snakes hiding?