| Untitled old age, old death and a white bedsheet on my cool forehead i curl under the comforter hugging my toes in my hands better to be spread scattered into a cold river than under clay the fire singes the marshmallow and the wire hanger death is the sacrifice of goats and is also immortality in tradition still it is good to spread out like an angel in the snow despite the cold. |
| First Thoughts I am wating further back in the back room of the first thought i had two dreams with my eyes closed one of birds, curled wings and dry crackling bodies strewn across the grass blown down from trees one of fingers, sprouting from walls pinned inside mortar and beckoning me to stay within the window pane. |