string ten (in a cemetery)

the trees cast a net
of sound
in wind


(if tomorrow
can bother
being yesterday)


who am I to say
if you fall
you rise


I find
one of your hairs
in a book


we stand on a promontory
and cast nets


into a photograph
where I’m going
Be Right Back

Go River

the larks of that book
with nails driven through it
so we are all little children?
quick, foxes?
rape, kill?

there are arrows drawn on the darkness everywhere
it is thoughtful of them
to draw this graffiti
who doesn’t understand fruit
in their soul
it is fiber
it is grain

the body vets its prison
but these are nested
prison within prison within prison
the way the numbers are trapped

on our journey alongside them