Once I entered into a symbiotic relationship with a praying mantis, wings folded / at our altar of Queen Anne’s lace. There is wine on the table—father, please don’t / let the calf bleed on me.

Sometimes what you need is a road / house, blast of laughter and warm air pouring / out the door, where the waitresses know / your name but the customers don’t

Here is the last forest that has never / heard the crisp snap of a dollar / or a siren louder than a crow. / Here the wind does not honor / the borders of a deed.

This dirt still mimics sweat / lies down alongside, unsure / your lips would quiet it / though the finger that is familiar / probably is yours –could be enough

Silence after I call your name this morning / earns another black mark in the roll book.

I wonder what it feels like to die; to feel the rhythm of your body / fall to rest as you watch your final breath dissipate, / to speak only through dreams and the grainy film of memory.

Kneeling amidst / the camellias, roses / culling the self / sown from the cultivated / the disdained / from the highly-regarded / I’m reminded / how circumstance / defines us