these two orchard thieves
a series and a brother the spirit seems somehow yet
feminine oily laughs when campfire staircases rise
up like milk our bodies sculpt a cheap iron colocynth
breaks our ranks touch again
doves watercourses a campfire
family laughter incorporating me
as simple as poetry
is a series and brother the black brawl
breathing cannibal horse
“All I did was let the kettle boil.” John Ashbery
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across his mottled brow
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no gleam. despite his mottling hair
a swamp alive
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fragile
as a cradle
unprintable man
loved at impossible distance and when
& when
wise brown eyes close
& back turns
into every crack
memories like steam rise.