from Fur Birds
(1) Mesh-water in the air, the light webs unmarshed. Waiting for June to unlock. Creature-clocks. The acid lake winks under ash, under motorized wings: eye snaps capture trees like glass, like little singed machines who haven't any hearts.
(2) I grow into a dog. My paws are soft numbers that print upon the earth. The figures grow into letters – text tracks that spell a movement from one shadow-self into the next. A sort of even-ing crescendo. A sense is in the numbers – a type of map: mud-body of blood. and claws. and ash.
(3) the animal women come to life in tiny houses, a town erupting among roots. The bog breathes home into the bones the grasses touch the air, the houses their red jelly hearts settled in logs of moss and rot beat through the clover
(4) We just saw millionaires in the gravel. They were still wearing watches. The last gleaming thing along the flesh. Their hands silver and dirty, turning to forks, clutches. The mirage women bring us a pile of colorful presents, wrapped and ribboned and spilling out of hand wagon with three red wheels. We spend the afternoon unwrapping them, making the boxes into new houses, filling them with dirt, hoping that birds or worms or foxes would come to find them, us.
(5) There are four moons and an ocean full of lead. I thought of taking off my clothes and sleeping with the wolf. I wondered, would it be warmer? I struggled to see how the wolf and I could be different. For now, my theory is that the trees have decided to grow down, underground, spreading toward the warm sparkle-grit of plasma they say we’re floating in. Fever-cubs, vixen sisters. Sticks have become their own kind of treasure. We go out gathering.