im going to tell you
you will be visited by either the Lamb
or the Beast
but as usual,
only i will attend here.
like the moon who invented rhythm
i’m now a servant to civilization
who uninvited it.
theres been an ebb against potential here
a halt in scrutiny
a tsk tsk to routine
there is such thing as too much of a good thing
just ask the desert man drowned in the ocean
not too many sunsets  have been seen from that angle
there are words in here you may not reach
months that escaped
like scrutiny
that last beer in an alcoholic’s six pack
they’re not for you
those secrets are not for you
those months are not for you
so when you hold me next time,
watch for the tide of my breath
soft like my skin on your warmth
picture me small
mouse-sweet and drip-dripping tender
but know and wonder
there are secrets in there
some we will not mention
even to the loudest of roars

tell me again now,
how gentle.



it feels bitter when it should feel sweet
it feels ragged when it should feel smooth,
it feels deep purple when it should feel pink
these smells should only
bring back memories of stay and release
not damp apartments in cities
where our mothers cried
where we cried ourselves awake
many days tugging your tail too far
off your fruitful grounds
so who was wolf
and who was fox?
now you see me scurry back in who’s little borough
i still think of you.


the gift of humanity
is the claim by the self
and our lives
become poems we were born to tell

we shed time the way your body sheds weight
of days behind our now
but can you grasp it?
now, i mean
before then and soon all become
muddled into systems of feelings drawn out
by the same creature
who trained whistles and rails on time.

until then, or now at least
we’ll be wrapped in sun kissed skins
and i’ll give you mine
just in case.

there was a glimpse of poetry
you have not tasted before
lovers calling your mouth
flicking them off with your teeth


this has nothing to do with the threat of strangers in the forest
i’m making sure you understand the moral of the story

forgive my salt
but i will skin hides
and dig my way out with my teeth
if i must.

i feel you
like tiny backpacks
flowers once hit in the suicide lane
maybe we’re passers by
watching them work around us
purposeful with dissatisfaction
unable to wish it any better
but doing it anyways.
if you think you knew me before
you should see me now
all upper crust
like flowers on any apron
reminding anthologies the grass is greener somewhere
i feel your absence like picks on my feet
moons half beet but still trying
hoping for the next time they can be full.

how are the trees there?
is the oxygen
a better breath?
or are you drowning
heavy in the foliage.


you’ll sacrifice an entire eyelash
a whole world and your wish
only for my happiness.
nothing could touch me more
the spider’s web can catch the moonlight
but cannot keep it.
if you insist on being as simple as a fox
i will insist on being as complicated as one too.

perhaps i called your name so loudly
trying to shout my panicked pulse.

it would be an injustice
of spring to blame the pollen for the rain
just like some of the largest
most beautiful flowers smell like rotting corpses.

crowds father ofter decades just to see Death in bloom.

Belladona is commonly inwon amongst herbalists and toxicologists alike as on of the most poisonous plants on this Earth.
but i have loved you from the moment you held my hand and called me friend.
boxes, bags and and an entire half a year’s reading list later
i know your place amongst the living doesn’t belong with the shadows we’ve sown onto our buttons.
there comes a time to look both ways and cross the street
and you’re crossing out your Petter Pan life
for the land of milk-honey thyme.

i will be there
in every forest walk
in every tea sip

i will be there when fox fire lights the wondering eyes
and i will be there when wolves threaten to claw out our skin
because they do
and they will.
just like we re-build our sensibilities after
each beasteal impulse

this is for you.