If I were with you on Christmas we would go sit on a low bank of the black muddy river, wondering why it’s so cold but not frozen. We’d drink hot chai tea with soymilk and share frosted secrets. You might say something like, “Ducks love to watch people in love sit on benches and throw stale bread into their reflections.” I would pinch your side and feel you rippling and think about how beautiful you’d look asleep with rose petals over your eyes or stars around your neck. Your breathing as my own, we’d exhale constellations and I’d say yours looks like a peacock. A snowflake might land on your nose and I’d think, hey maybe if it’s ok with the season I could kiss you and the world might still turn alright.

Wake Up Curious

Dripping from the rafters are
Bones flaunting for the eating
To dress with skin condiments
And call feisty lunch

A buckwheat heart
Hefty maple soaked

To eat like sex pastry

My Name is a Trophy

Evening love,

Blow that promise across bottle tops
I won’t take it as truth
Until a bottle top whispers

Drink up, My circulation’s harsh

Quarter atop walnut swivel stools
Your highness, so suitable for falling

I thought only of catching you
Of sweeping you away