Four Poems
I bite my eyes shut between these songs.
They are the sounds of blackened insect husks
folded over elk teeth in a
tin can,
they are gull wings fattening on cold air
flapping in a paper sack on the chlorine-
stained floor.
They curl in corners, spiked and black thatched,
stomp across the living room ceiling,
pull our hair one strand at a time from electric sockets
and paint our stems with sand in the kitchen sink.
stomp across the living room ceiling,
pull our hair one strand at a time from electric sockets
and paint our stems with sand in the kitchen sink.
