dead birds don’t sing.

it is an art
the ability to disappear
in front of their eyes,
to magic away anything
which means something,
to empty at will
and remain vacant
that you may echo
their performance
without spoiling the
illusion.

dripping paragraphs.

Would listen to you
say my name
as evening fades
to light of day
in every which position
coaxing shudders
where your words have been
as the syllables
roll off your lips
trailing letters on my hips
licking consonants
moaning vowels
dripping paragraphs
from towels
while your tongue
beckons heat
shout me, sigh me
learn my name
between your sheets.

loose ends.

I forgot how forgetting
used to be work,
an active exercise
of body and mind,
as I absently scan past
familar loose ends
which used to snag
and require stitching.