locking the door against dangerous// human curiosity and forgetfulness.

A dozen owls at the bar, impolite, eating the cheese and mice. A dozen owls. Eleven of them on stools. The big one with his wings around two others. Bragging, obnoxious. Ah what a fool! Too big to argue with.

The monsters in the sky burst with riotous laughter, their rumbling voices barking out commands, their cracked nails scratching on the screen, their knotted knuckles tap-taping on the window. Little girl, won't you come out to play? She clutches her floral bed sheets,…

I saw the news today, O boy! “Cows Bound for Slaughterhouse Make a Dash for Freedom.” I told my punk rock band Frying Tumors about it, And what do you think they said? “Things are disturbed enough already Without cows getting into the act.”

With the sudden thrust// of April green, we can forget/ our drought continues.

The new poetry comes in shining metal boxes covered in glass so you can peer in.

They left their great need behind When they were taken out of the country. They seem to live without thought of that blood. They do not respond to anything that calls to it. They seem shallow. They feed on image alone. Blood does not shake the

I want to know which way is north. Your sprawl erases cardinal points