Tightrope of lips taut between our silent space and pavement cracks, where only rain survives

Eyes tip-toeing over flotsam of sleeping habitat to the hills that follow   This is closest we ever get to foreplay nests her head on my shoulder   I imagine we’re lost in the country no land, no landmark only black and solid hills as compass like walking through...

The International Space Station  witnesses 16 sunrises and 16 sunsets each day    A child throws watercolour shoals at the wall  awed by the beautiful carnage he created    One day he may read   a poem about butterflies  guillotined in thresher blades,   and think of this...

There is a Cheyenne word for the act  of preparing the mouth to speak  like the moment cloud guts open  above plains, before damnation floods    Hinged, beneath the softest decibels  Alzheimer smiles prevented our lips from moving    Our hearts stopped for  one thousandth of a second,  sisters...

Ballerinas of glassdiamond scatter upon kitchen floor Bottles sink from handsas submarines failing to find home At the hospice karaokeinvitations to dance die like whisperswithin photograph framesbeside the coldest beds Mindy McCready tribute actlocked drunk jaw to the theatreat end of furthest...