Whose diary is a book of lies
wearing the weave
of hot cells.
Poetry is the currency of ghosts
to send a shock through a net
of sounds and gestures:
sorcery of clocks, cloaks.

Birds flap around like broken hearts.
They’re so trashy. A flock fleeting
below fallow clouds whose lazy blue
clots the diction typed
between the wings.

A century for counting
that mean fantasy
like knowing is a feeling
making our chests hurt.





Her red testament: hairs
spilled to ghosts. Her heirs
but rats — those tiny teethers.
Her kin, her kind, contort
the tunnels, towers
bewitched together, whisker-
blessed and twisted, pawed
blue as the omnivore begets
pups and sisters. That purse
flap lifted. Look in.
You'll see: we are so similar.
Just subsisting. Twin vermin
vectoring the cistern. A miniature
system. Zodiac of plunder.
Calculus of convection.