The anodyne won’t erase wayward dreaming.
Save your money for objects and gifts you can’t drink.
The old woman’s porch is on fire with orange Monarch wings.
Powder-dust—teal.
A human conversation, an imprecise reaction—
a reel let down into uncertainty’s philosophy of swallow—post-questionings.
The moon lost us—surfed behind the tree-line.
The shortest June night doesn’t recognize January.
Snow drops lost in snow— washed away proper punctuation.
My memories have become echoes of someone else’s memories.
Estuaries are receding with green-lit tornadoes.
Dank tidal pools reflect severed clouds.
The nightmare—empty book, blank pages—emotion’s flimsy algorithm.
An aphorism thins after we claim it—ripped maps of Himalayan mountains.
Underfoot rocks slip turmoil when the bats alight from shortened pines.
The wind narrates future footfalls wrapped in different dreams.
We were together without rain gutters.
The winding train through night streets says, people are moving, going places.
Windows down, I was speeding on the freeway, leaning into cursive.
Without identification, the body loses itself.
I couldn’t choose the right end words for the owl’s sestina.
The final tercet gathers the entire sentence that tried to tear my house down.