she wants to be close to the bird she wants to inhale the secret of flight

The moon fills with uglier moons.
The stars are just fine, and maybe
that’s what really matters

Your body is a resonance chamber,
deep and empty
like a tongueless bell

Estimate the probability that Joe will want to see you again if you choose to go home with him tonight. Show your work

Even silence has a sound, I know. Even when still I can hear my body working, eyelids creasing together, teeth clicking. Inhales, exhales, knuckles cracking

I spend one week a year
for the rest of my life painting rooms
varying blends of beige

We may not live here, but we can kill what does

The problem with stories is they won’t write
themselves

The story will have opened up its overcoat to you,
revealing a lining hung with many mirrors

maraschino cherries dark as gizzard’s hearts

Holiness has a perverse topspin,
a quaint stiffness
that trails us, dragging

I ride streaks of confident abundance, search you in the subjunctive, find you everywhere

a thread of moonlight                                   
sang opal
in your one white hair

look a certain way in order to not look another certain way

a reminder that there is almost nothing, at any
point, separating what’s inside from what’s out