little windows

use rib bones to make a wind chime

what a pretty sound

yours make        such a pretty sound

bleached white & wondering

if you brought the milk home for dinner

                            *

shriveling floors are colder here

than coffins & trout bones

pursed on canvas           a little close

to women next door, legs spread

in the garden grunting

                            *

mottled purple takes your jacket off

only to put it on again                  what is that

in your mouth? scraping in the chamber

a bullet a tooth a way home

forgive me         oh lord

you’ll wake the baby

                            *

peek between white sheets

& the river swells with trees;

juniper berries in muslin cloth

& how his beard brushes brown

against my shoulder