Inert, bifurcated wrong, legs trunks. Bent midway, she turns the lens. Dense Leica.
Below, a bumble bee, encumbered.
Clings, then, to one thin stem, a breeze too slight to shift her canopy: brown, leafy hair.
One honing wasp, casing drops, both worlds blur.
Dying in April
We chew too long. Unh, unh, unh. Green strings between my teeth.
Spit strings in the sink.
Don't talk about pee smells.
She laughed in the dark. Oh, silly girl. Then held my bony shoulders till I slept.