“Trunk”

i heard you in the thunder,
wolf, tree top, empty field.

we marked the bark with knives,
jagged lines turned to meaning:

you told me druids mixed salt
and blood, in places like this.

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“Remnant”

we have thoughts
piled on desks
scratched onto receipts
or scraps of paper
stolen from books

the world’ll go
catatonic one day,
and all that’ll be left
are post-it notes
on computer screens

poems in margins
lists on counter tops
novels in cd cases
haiku on roofs,
loveletters on shoulders.