I've noticed after a few sips of tea, the tip of her tongue, thin and red
with heat, quickens when she describes her cuts and bruises—deep violets and red.
The little girl I baby-sit, hair orange and wild, sits splayed and upside down
I have faith in the single glossy capsule of a butterfly egg.
I have faith in the way a wasp nest is never quiet
If I were to ask you a question about your book
and sum it up into one word it would be, Why?
I think I like Walt Whitman better than you. I just don't
You elbow me with your corduroy jacket
when a box chock-full of antique marbles comes up.
I can't hear your whispers above the auctioneer's racket.