because mail doesn’t have a penis
I hear you breathe like fire
you embody me
you made me
bovinity is divinity
and not the siren that we hear.
the hysterical moment captures
arrested protestors lingering near the doors
the women speak of Brakhage,
beneath a terminalized patient
a dead horse.
concealed anger and jazz
preterite modification of the sky:
there are secrets reaching through the blue
of a rolling tongue
