I'm just going to read one from a section that's
called "Drown."
"Endless moths, soft war of bodies.
I'll trace for you flight patterns, vapor trails,
circumvolve, like galaxies, unreal.
Slip of a girl in a smocked dress cut your circlet
from the dotted lines, may the chitin dust bejewel you.
Comes the back of the throat ghost, comes the rain.
Lake edged by boats, days, fishtail, last lures,
flinty dreams of flight in the water box under.
I said, corset of bones.
I said, heart sponge or here is the mind, a palace of tears.
Leaves on the cottonwoods turn over silver bodies.
Nothing rises.
My own sunken hand blooms beautiful.
Imagine Lazarus's resurrection in the throat and just
after, his terrible hands.