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Natureexpand_moreHere lies the girl difficult to discern. Here lies the girl misanthropic.
Snug in the spell of a cradle rocking, I remember the first time I floated.
Rays burst from behind the mountain, sweep the broad beach.
It’s impossible to identify where your voice ends and the magnitude begins.
When the thugs from the bank showed, up my father laughed.
I could feel the floor’s slight pitch. We were in for a long, long voyage.
You are the only one who knows not to pour water on the flame.
My advice would be not to trust. The ocean is just the ocean until I say otherwise.
As the whorled fingerpad loves Morse, but more so. Worse.
The wok oil ready to tremble and smoke—everything, ready.
I only divine the cat’s location when I hear its small cough.
It’s not the sun and all its colonies that miss you—it’s the frailest barriers.
I lost my pen, I lost my keys, and my hat somewhere on a table.
You’re certain that they’re harmless, benign as a flock of founding fathers.
There’s something I saw at the race meeting I can’t figure out.
When I was a woman, I was all reason and my reason was unjust.
Take my hand, lead me by heart over the blind stepping-stones to the edge.
I give you a real blue song the mountains hold under their foot.
If you are water my left hand is a horse thief my right hand is alder smoke.
Come live with me. We could plant acorns in each other’s mouths.
It was the season of storm delays, of . . . shame and ghosts on trains
Make haste, my love, I am redrawing the scale of escape.
When you are a father, want sons. There is some math in this.
It’s raining concrete. I bite my grief wetly. Who will test these chains?
“I want to stay in real yurts,” I said, “not yurts for Westerners.”
Blacked-out little angel, you shuffle home under the streetlights.
Every room came furnished half-real & dead like mirrors on skin
Bad luck, like the white-scabs disease, can infect others.
It’s other things than the like of you would make a person afeard.
It lay slumped where they’d dragged it, a fright of an animal.