Where the Torso

All the fingers that hang
are branches growing out
of the surplus of a season,

and away from recognition--
that still they arch from one

The Glass, Having Broken

To Hover
To Want
To Burst

And Two to Hold

I feel often my hands are not
but made of wooden spools.

Bare and dry, these two hold
nothing and cannot know

any texture of another.
Until you are thread wound

like a corkscrew, dark in bindings;
defining movement and history.

Hunter

It sounds like rodent burrowing inside
a tree or someone unfolding
dried petals of a rhododendron,
whose lips are always bent
upon dissolving--

But it only you, as a child who digs
with a stick, deeper, closer to the minute limit
that an owl pellet circumscribes.

Each stab erases exactitude
of what the owl was, of the remaining whole
existence of the organism. Wondrous are
these cracks made now in decimals of bone
by you, merely touching

anything and nothing; so pure with want
to derive what color lines, like bark
the other side of someone's skull.