National Poetry Month 2021

conversations with myself, 

occurrences, are

not. Progress.

a baby imbibing drowns

in a spout 

(whatever death and life are bound beyond, the baby knows)

in time, we are

insecure in this huge body and tiny heart

— we strip down to blood

into a desertscape; lenses extend

we play with the curls of our necks till they

return to themselves

                          A body of love

is not a body of lack — pity the skinless

the trees, the scars and hands, but never this


We surgeons know

a hopeless case if we — look: there’s a hell

and a good mistake next city in; get going

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