These Days are all Prettily Dyed

what do oh skylines
know of rains and of bows,
except what we see, distantly,
down the sight, past the colorful
fletching of parroting arrows
and time knows by wrote
nothing of import today
except clouds dressed
up like knots tied in
rainbows oh skyline with
light, cloth and eyes and
these evenings are days and
these days are all prettily dyed


to believe the speed of light

we’re tough enough and slow enough

perhaps; i wish i might

love & hearths are. & i wish i could.

like or if they have something hotter than our

we wondered what the stars are

bookmarks, how far; with the songs and talk

spells the speed of the flow of light through

how fast how far

the distance between

the sun and stars is

measured in calls from

this spot though i’m off a hair.

I designed this from scratch.

There was nothing before.

there were robins and rabbits

scratching only while they whistled and

it worked; there was a

sound cast out from them in

radio waves in a tight bloom of tones

as galaxies; or in a body right here

by the bed there’s a book that

I wanted you to be in; or something


Cat Eat Eagle

the art we made for the cat was mostly
live feeds of smaller
beasts that didn’t last like she has. there
are eagles which have a camera on their
nest at Berry College in
Georgia; the mother is larger
yet her partner is harder dropping
ripped up cat parts in the nest when
baby peeps next to the unhatched
egg of it’s sibling which it will kill.
we watch to decipher
the art the chick receives in
pieces: two legs, a heart, a wishbone, a
bullhead’s head, a trout’s stone brain and
a lost cat’s tail still moving like a voice saying
the art we made for the cat was mostly
her sister, her brother, her father who
we raised neither better nor farther while
eagles have eggshells. the art
i offer is far softer; as a kitten in
owego one day i did math
and it equaled: cat. eat. eagle.

Sweater Vests

here is thought
number one: i have had it
just once; only it’s - here, watch -
equal to a venom worn just
thus, beneath the dermis
which finds the center, the
heart, like a lost fuzzy
button in a cold jar of
twice-thoughts left
off the right side of a
sweater for those without
status or age, or gender. like needles may you
have feathers and nests
yet share
this skin too, like a 
bed of our snakish
sweater vests