Published in Exquisite Corpse
Our driveway is covered with eggshells to warn us of birdshot.
In the Orchard
I lie on my belly. I screw my mouth into the earth, and begin to hum.
After a few hours I hear roots snapping, tapping. Next.
The choir is required to wear surgical masks.
When Your Grow Your Hair In
Through the transom the bees come to flower, to go the grain of names.
Logoless, at Twelve
There were still minutes of night we grew for ourselves.
With the Juvenile Deliquescent
in the Parking Lot Above Echo Beach, 1977
Oh, the stoned starlit Noh of it.