tragedy

warheads pressing in-formation causing her throat to swell and tighten building desire like cities digging tunnels too deeply disrespectfully into her earth creating openings and avalanches minute tragedies in her stomach leaving little flags where maybe something lies buried tragedy that has nowhere else to go… eat it or fuck it the catch cry as

time perfume

my hands are pungent cupping my face I inhale golden ochre fills me my heart a newly forming bowl on the wheel moistened now by the rich echo of a smell I can taste forming still… I lick my hand and drive my time machine back to 1978 a hot summer with brittle trees against

salty feet

do apples move? they roll from palm to palm be an apple with skin to lick and pierce with crisp flesh that parts float like an apple in the bath or on the sea bobbing between my salty feet