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dug up pavement
unleavened bread baking on silver circles
at the hive the drones have changed the dance so your death waggle goes unnoticed
but they cannot ignore your absent scent
I woke up with a poem in my mouth
used it to #nd the #ll of this other voice
{it needed no such bribe}
after harvest bends it leaves
to frost, and stranger my eyes listen to repeat without kiss
to cheat, the thoughts which propel me
March is a lawnmower line crooked near a gate above
buried Elk horns
that was the poem I found under my tongue on a Wednesday; four years ago
so slipping out the backbones
dragging a (ag dressed in ethanol across
the concept of myself, we reframed as partner from January to June & my skin dries
above a kitchen stove which is not & their brother draws lines in the sand,
pulls out teeth (in love, one squeaks)
to plant at the sole of these feet when sleep is so
which is never, so to speak