Locust

At dusk, she works her way into the heart
Of a wind-tilted tree
Bracing her feelers as flesh falls away to bone
Securing to sylvan self

Aftermath

Gathering me into a mesh so fine
While we sip wine from the chipped teacups
Of the Mad Hatter’s broken bar.

“Poetry to shake senses awake with the splash of language.”

Among the stones, inscriptions For drowned ships and fallen leaders, Stands of alder and of birch The frozen souls of … More