crack in the dawn

doorways in seeds

perchance a season of great harvest

basket makers as a subset of weavers

all with more peaceful wisdom

or patience than I own

the bearded priesthood of poets

mostly dead, white, male

even with the redundancies

I’ll take two out of three

oh joy, another bluebook
just like college
right in the hope
of catching up
on the other side
of some strangely
gradated stranger

As for the rabbit, Alice?

Keep your eyes on the cocky boy in the oversized coat and top hat

The lucky devil, I think now, as the inevitable third party

Krill
Drill
Shrill
Thrill

In my vanilla-bean beehive
with a topknot pillow

at least once

life continues

where was the silver spoon?

was it always this hard?

the wet horizon pours out
draped in fish
down to the seed
rather than transcendence
As for my emotional home, I’m lost
without geohistory and mythopoetics
where I wanted to collapse into your dreams
once you came