posted July 10, 2015
Salt marsh sparrows nest
the tidal cusp near drowning
so I write and must.
posted July 2, 2015
Fireflies flit so
magnificent but my hands
are holding shadows.
posted May 29, 2015
Happy to say this was just accepted into the Canadian literary magazine, Prairie Fire. Happier still I've had two editorial discussions about the end line's 'very'. What do you think?
In sight of paradise, but out of reach of gods,
we don't blame the girls, or try to tame their
unkilled wanting, their gazing outwards,
nor stop them when they go to the highway
beneath veils of snow and passage, capes
of thick black hair across their shoulders.
It's said they never wash their hair — light-thieving
otter-gleam, androgyne, cedar smoke — but instead
pour oil over each other's scalps, work in ribbons
of warm liquid: oolichan, Oregon grape and larch.
Drawn down by comb and hand, soft fingers of family
migrate bone beneath head skin, shine each strand.
What oils, what answers? Salal, hemlock or spruce?
Their eyes skirt questions and are heavy with unknown
resolutions; they're set upon the highway, while I look
to them, gathering something sweet from the frostbitten
wild. How I long to bury my mouth against their napes
and apologise for the guillotine of our very presence.
posted May 10, 2015
Rising vesper buzz
of wild bees, powder casks of
honey at their knees.
posted May 8, 2015
Distance dances of
talon and wing fall asleep
swaying in the trees.