so what if I'm

smoke a billowing

shapelessness a

signal someone was

here loved

fucked up so loud

they can no longer

hear their own

remnant voice

ring ting ting-ing

into oblivion

like gulls

shitting off cliffs

decades swallowing

sea salt promises

the end is as black

as the womb

some nerves surrender

to the numinous

thrum of a forest

floor adorned

with snapped twigs

splayed viscera

of a dead deer

lambent stars

crying on the arrow-

shaped leaves

of the sorrel

a fleecy white moth


in the veiled

shade of a pine

I know some morning

glories only open

to the dulcet deepening

of dusk

some prayers

can only be spoken

to a purpling


some fists

only unclench

when there's nothing left

to strangle

This poem was originally published in the March 2015 issue of Cloudbanks & Shimbleshanks.