Wake now, sleepy silt girl
and tell us again the tale
of how you befriended
the timid speckle fish
and drew forth the river of time.

Remind us of the pond
where the circle begins
silt soft as memory
squishing between your toes
and liquid time pooling its treasures close.

Tell us how speckle fish lifted her gaze to the sky
wishing new, wishing more
and you, urging: swim faster! leap higher!
empty air kissing her flesh
scales turning crystal, fins taking flight.

How your jewel-speckled friend dipped a sapphired wing
or you to ride along
so she’d never fly alone
and you could whisper don’t stop now!
as she burst into the heavens

leaving behind the pool of time – how it rippled in its loss!
Longing to hold again its beloved speckle fish
droplets clinging to rubied hide
entwining your silted toes,
for it could not lose you, too.

Oh, how it leaped to follow! Set alive
in a riverine game of chase
always racing, never catching
moments and seasons unfurling
beads of forever tumbling free.

But even jeweled speckle-wings grow weary
once an eon, or so
and the river of time winds back again
pooling the pearls it thought lost
content in the cradling of its once-again treasures.

Open now your eyes, eternal silt girl
and tell us of our next future
for the circle’s come round again
and timid speckle fish awaits
already wishing new sparklings into the sky.

The cherub at the Eastern Gate
watched Eden, wet, a rainy gray,
and pregnant Eve, and Adam, who,
on bare feet, wandered to the day.

The snake remained. Eurydice
sank down to hell, slipped in her dance,
and still we sing of Orpheus, who
killed them twice with just one glance.

And unnamed was the wife of Lot,
who, fleeing from their burning life,
turned ‘round and grew into a rock.
The angel watched, no snake in sight.

And yet one strangled Laocoön,
and his two sons who passed the gates.
The viper bit, the poison tore
through Laocoön’s tortured veins.

There’s death and misery to be found
outside of walls, or past the veil.
Beware of snakes, the stories say,
but angels, too, are in the tales.

Mist rolls in
before the sun rises.

Herds of parasaurolophus,
with their uniquely curved crests,
wander the former cattle fields in herds
in the foggy morning.

Their calls resonate
across the grazing fields
like the foghorns of old.

Those ships are
gone, now—
buried under the sea
with the old world.

Only the echoes of our
arrogance remain,
grazing in the old cattle fields,
fishing in the warm, shallow rivers,
stalking the forests.

The cries of the parasaurolophus
carry for miles.

How rare and beautiful
to exist at all.

I am the whisper against your flesh on a warm dark night. I am the flutter that caresses your skin. I wait with anticipation for you to remove your clothes, exposing your softest parts to me. I delight in the goosebumps that dot your arms as I gently glide my body against yours.

Sigh, my delicate morsel, as I prepare to devour you. Sink into the seat so that I may look upon you. The outline of your curves entices me as the faintest trickle of moonlight dances over us. I smell your sweat and am insatiably drawn to it. Sit still while I take you in. My mouth upon you, soft and light. Do you even notice my ever-so-gentle bite? I’ll drink you up and suck you in. So supple, so soft, your body is my kryptonite!

Don’t go! I am the monster you fear, the purr in your ear, and the unquenchable thirst of millions of years. My longing for you will always linger, my dear. I am the toilet mosquito that bites at your rear.

She's airborne after the abyss
living the day for one fatal kiss
unable to feed, only to feel
undeniable need, insatiable reel

what does it mean to be alive
she asks herself after the rise
for certainly love will mean demise
on a Mayfly's ephemeral ride

no rich gifts will anchor her stay
when all glamour disappears to grey
and ache splits her back in two
still, she rises with the morning blue

weak and worn, longing to fly
wings stretch with the sunlit sky
transforming, stained-glass set ablaze
reborn in a translucent haze

until a prince elicits a dance
she's Cinderella in a transient trance
living a fairytale for less than a day
as he falters and she casts away

pearl beads to the fertile water
she's Ophelia, drifting the liquid altar
on opposite banks, rosemary grows
flowered remembrances of her final repose.

Like a rancid Baldwin, the bitter, browner brother
all innocence, all rage, rips the monarch down
with tongue and teeth: Life
                                           is not
                                                      a circle. Someone’s
got to head the table. Why stuffy old M?
because he’s stronger?     louder?                        …lighter?
Because my roar’s got too much purr in it?
Because my fangs drip language sharp as blood
—my venom kills as quickly and as thorough—
is it habit? Does no one know that circles can change
direction? Do you think the men who made the story
in Hollywood or London, under James or Bush the First
would write the reconstruction of their pride?
                                                                        Be honest,
                                                                                           darling!
I am on the bottom and you are on the top, simply
because I am on the bottom; you—for now—are on top.

We walked the beach
after midnight
because the power grid
had failed again.

Entire neighbourhoods
waited inland
inside dark apartments,

their refrigerators warming
by the hour.

Along the shore
the tide carried
its own electricity.

Each step
disturbed blue fire
beneath the water.

Fish moved invisibly
through galaxies
breaking around our ankles.

My younger brother laughed
for the first time
that winter.

The sound travelled outward
across the black shoreline
without resistance.

Far offshore
cargo ships waited
for morning clearance,

their anchored lights
floating separately
from the earth.

No one spoke
for several minutes.

The ocean continued
opening itself
under our footsteps—

brief constellations
appearing
only after contact.

I remember thinking
this was how certain lives worked:

darkness first,

then the sudden proof
that something luminous
had been there
the entire time,

waiting
for disturbance.