six legs but antennae
make eight lines outlined
betwixt my arm hairs

shush, the undersound
of the city, or the trees
shushing the air

aliquots of love
the perfect division
of heart and state

this is how the perfect
human falls, the perfect
fall, the perfect human

here the branches end
and here again branches begin
oh sky between

if you can relate
to blooms half-opening
relate to anyone

as for the dead moth
that i rubbed against my cheek
i guess he's gone now

faith is two circles
on the tarmac, on a bike
with your eyes closed

with our prayers
billowing on thy whim
our plastic bags

hop into my curry
oh little summer bug -
without hesitation...

you are so brief -
i've never understood
half a sunset

i am growing old
a frayed loop of tired rope
a broken chair