bent fences
where the bush was
shellac the hamster
asleep in a green fury
and it would look pretty
for bursts of sun on chrome
even as i stitch this black river’s throat up
alone below your beatup sky
christmas lights as shining doors blown off their hinges
curled and defending the tender pink meat
someone else burning to tap archaic machines
i have to think about the texture
alone below your beatup sky
swoon units
never enough text
this one sidles along the mill’s hips

from King’s Woods, A dynamic, temperature-reactive locative hypertext poem.

I don’t want to put you in any danger. Wood grains and yellow hanging lamps piss all over the walls in that room you want into, clouding the drywall with a smell you can lick off your fingers, leaning back and letting one thin coverlet is dead. Young David Collins can sit in the garden confiding in his “ghostly friend,” or querying her: “I know who’s dead,” she explains. These days the feelings swarm and subside like watching a beach wrinkle and disturb her. As far as it’s now known, what’s important is that men become men again, or mountains mountains, or maybe my butterfly dreams are trying to tell you something. My butterfly dreams are trying to tell you something. Sometimes needs eclipse self, or sometimes even the seams drill us with ferocious and lovely light. Sure, you wanna save everybody, but from what, and just where will you whisk them off to? I’m impaled on sweetness, rubbing sugar into the wound.