and other poems



Don’ts and the Glittering Dew


Fireflies in the treeline at the supermoon pink

to see your own blood in our neighborhood

playground equipment low to the ground and

rusted. Swingsets have their own story

arc and jumping off at the highest point

just when you're flying my god you're flying.


I learned how to play bassoon because 

whalesong so I could not resist muting

myself with a wad of double-ply twisted

into a dirty floor dragonfly playing

the bell pressed into your belly. You darkest

whip I only wanted to make you move.


The humid blond baleen you call your child

is a birddog in the suburban music of

blemishes. There is a nest above the magma

dream. Go there to the calamity and affection

of your knee scar that redpainted night

porch of some barbecue family joint in Roswell.