Not interested in your | reproductions | Too tired to | argue between | angels and machines | Don’t care | for your reasons, they don’t | matter to me | Ghosts for sale || I woke to snow and moonlight | the hush in which you may hear | if you are hushed | the echoes of gods’ footfalls | The magic sets in

The magic sets in and won’t be budged | Twilight in winter and the trees very still, occasionally a hare | Longing to sleep, so as to dream | You slake a thirst I didn’t know I felt | bear me back the wax | sheen of red cherries | and a childhood question | the space between the blossom and the maturing fruit | still alive enough to | wonder? | Sometimes a memory | Or the scent of rain wrapped in box | of violet crepe | Those nights on the inside of your wrist | the moonrise was in everything | the click of earrings on a bedside table, clunk | of wristwatch with its hints | of action and jewels | tangents of the sea where the | mother of pearl first | began to trickle out | We listen to dominoes | The sound of our flesh and the sheets is the hiss of | hot horseshoes cooled in water, the | passing of energy || Leaving doors open into other rooms | Truthfully | To walk so as to | leave most places behind | To choose, so as to | narrow a life by specific paths, in this case | one haunted by | mint and elderberries | Hiding so much in a kiss, jumping | out of its shadow like children | in costume with a BOO!!! and squeals | of laughter | Soon, everyone had gone | Eventually the snow


from the series bliss point | angels of disorder
(open-ended, 2012–present)