What look like legs are really sticks
and what look like sticks are rivers.
We swim in bruises.
Sometimes trees talk back.
All the mysteries are the soft kind.
We look hard at one another sometimes.
All the wolves look like men.
There's a river in your throat.
A fluke can be an accident
or the arm of an anchor, or a fish.
This year was supposed to be
the one I didn’t waste. Where I
wasn’t sick. We flounder, we thirst.
The hours grow bloated with salt.
I keep waiting for the buildings
to turn into trees.
Wear all my outfits
two days in a row.
Be nice to be a bridge
for the river in your.
Be sweet, stone sinking to the