Come, I’ll clean my teeth with you

and stain the furniture with echoing pulse.


I didn’t want to diagnose us

a waterfall of butter and melted wires

waves of licorice pulsing off the cliffs


arching your shoulders to carry the moon

a platter of metal and earth

but here we are

and I’ve crafted a bar cart of your limbs.



In the dialect of sapphire blinks

he said he could chisel slippers from the cold eclipse.

I reminded him to pluck the jewels from Orion

when he’s not looking and they’re left to curdle

in the jokes of Mercury, ripened and illustrious.

Black is flattering to my hips, but so are jewel tones.

I’m a winter in that sense, yet still so ignorant

in the fashion of tactile sensation and emotion.

Perhaps a sheer hare would do well for my calves.

A fox, rampant with flame and stoked with coffin velvet,

or a woodpecker with a wildfire in its laughter.

I look the best in demise and mourning –

these predators like a girl sadder than the dying moon.

But his tongue is softer, is warmer, than that. He says

this is all just beautiful, and so are you. I wear the furs

of a horror game sunset and call it a day.


The landlord will build you a waterfall of granite

collapsing to its knees along your hardwood floors


just bring the apples, prop up the broom

and drape novelty towels over the faucets

so the appliances sound like laughter


stock the dishwasher with the evidence of hungry ghosts


wipe down the reflections

cackling back from the polished steel

scrub away the phantoms

and convince me that we’re home.

Uses for Sand

You had never tasted the ocean,

letting the waves flay open your youth

and settle their scales inside taste buds

like little eggs – weaving saline discovery


into a granular pelt. I used this moment

to explain the writing process as volcanic

islands – breaching humpbacks –

an archipelago of keys and letters.


I meant to imply it was deliberate and, eventually, cold.

Calculated. Gelatinous. To you, however,

I’m just slow and warm,


a pulsating earth passing the time on lukewarm sludge

until I’m molded into something a bit more divine

and the universe, frozen and misshapen, lets me hibernate


once more beneath the mantle.