Deer here

hoof the roots at dusk. Soon. It dims the eyelets of trees, swayings, a scree of lights I watch work across the black hills, gleaning. Certain birds scissor the poplars and counting them now is kind of balancing, we certainly did, fitting the bright snow into a holster. I held you to mountains and to …

Spinning

your skinny arm along my shoulders. Arm called lightning—there are locusts going off like fire, spitting, a sequence of infinite maneuvers, a place in a pound of water, houses, goings on, and knotted, all this, still on * Published in indefinite space 8

I would weild

a large pair of scissors. Two eyes, two holes, big enough for his fingers. I would shear the field sighing over the surface of words. Flat yes flat. I would slip my hands underneath the new world and ask if snow is instead. If this is what we said. * earlier version published in Cab/Net …