Octavos

an astronomerstudies lunar fragmentsa life of signslike potsherds pieced togetherto build a vanished city Originally published in Spaceports & Spidersilk, c.

I write with the soul that is summer.With the blood of me people dancing like a firefly incased with heather.My

I step on the thread   even considersnipping the end   but   it’s too muchto find scissors             when opening thedrawer will lead

Let’s let it lie—the grace of all this being—like a dancing forest of winter trees.And these, palms, turned upward,have relinquished

She tumbles up,Cresting clouds’ peaksEmber wings embracingthe ecstasy of airFirst flight pyroclastic,Igneous ascensionfrom the ashen earth Photo by Pixabay from Pexels

Brave citadel of a valorous race,Strive no more but yieldWith the sun-ripened olive’s gentle graceBefore my fingers.Brave citadel, throw open

dawn stalks the dozing darknesstalons shake the blackness awakestruggling, the prey shrivels into the brightnessa vast mouth swallows the darknight,

there’s a human loomingover my soup.I buzz and fuss and flapmy mighty wings, wishingI could shock or bite or stingso

I would have returnedmy books—I don’t like fines—but the catslivingin the book dropssmell my fear. Photo by Krysten Merriman from Pexels

Her anatomy, yours to catalogueOn cream paper, in iron gall inkThe soft parts, the harsh truthsEverything becomes oneUnder the botanist’s