Each Bound of the Fiery Paper

Who does me this I whistle off

brazen as the green of the Palestinian flag

Strange wishful little books clot my fur

I do not labor except to season my domain

Through seven holes all things twitter

I reject the disjecta of allegory

A sluttery roller skate grips my shoe

Is there enough chaos in you to make a world?

The feather on the egg is the horse under the bed

The New England winter is still raw and long

The summer is intense and abandoned