I held your hair when you painted the sink with
Vodka-flavoured sick, and tucked you in...

I speak the summer, near the dusk
of the Atlantic, from the cove...

The memory and shadow
of his girl, diving to her grave...

When did the hummingbird become mendacious?
Between the revelry I must have missed something...

I wake with an alarming desire
to arm myself with balloons...

I would mould my hands
into blinkers, so that nosy branches...

I try to imagine a vixen, in a field of snow,
with four purple mitts like membranes to her feet...

Why, your hair is forever a storm.
I do not own a mirror...

Only once, with little acclaim to
notoriety, symbolism or fame will...

When I stand 'mongst Fall's crimson descent
that kisses tenderly the beating waves...

I wrote a poem, and it was a long poem
about hummingbirds and lilypads...

You share the amber of fields of barley
with a glance of your eyes, alluring as...