ANTLER
the frost passed the time
running its fingers
through the woods
picking and pulling
until everything
was still
i crossed the line
without ever acknowledging
the bridge
and when i shook her hand
previous nights laid calm
turned to glass
we spoke in tongues
and never once
spoke a vowel
hung in the knotted absence
of retrospect
in windows and door frames
where exits
and entrances
convolute
FICTION
i tore out the pages
where you feigned love,
like a carpenter ant
discovers a new home
(a place to dwell,
and later, eat).
it wasn’t much.
there was never much to say.
so i folded up each page,
into soiled hands
sewn together
in permanent confession
(a place to dwell,
and later, eat).
BROMDEN
i already knew
that there were senses
farther from our conversations
than charades or roses
could neither betray
nor help
but i covered myself in dust
just trying to (remember?)
fill in the holes.
and incidentally,
time, became a gathering of arms.
and it was selfish
to have held it
like a womb-
casual hair-triggers
next to calm, spent shells.
it had become itinerary,
to wear my flesh to the bone-
crawling on my belly,
brushing bloody kisses off the walls,
and peeling bait off the fishhooks.
but i’m cagey.
i pretend i don’t know.
