The vultures are not cruel.
Your inner thigh sends bees up my spine.
I feed my newfound passion with “rrrr,s.”
I like the brief contact I have with my neighbors.
My arms gather nothing.I am afraid of this nothing.
It’s not the wind that catches my hair in fever.
Gladys was thin and frail, swimming in a night coat the color of salmon.
Pills are handed out, swallowed squares—comfort to troubled minds.
I want to take a cute girl to the moon.
Her body sinking, a rock done skipping across water.
Psychosis is a parrot with a sharp beak.