when you tango me

back to this room
where wallpaper never seemed to begin

and I collect scent:
amber, woodrose, truffle oil,

it all ends somewhere,
yet I cannot forget
your birdsongs
and calls that dance untroubled
in our urban wildnerness.

scent collector

that cardboard satchel
you tote so jaunty
collects shavings
of memories

stones and dust.

And what would you catch
if bravery were not absent?

perhaps lakewater and scales,
mudcakes and pigeon eggs

a pebble in a nude boot—
your eyes are pearlized;
they haven't forgotten
the fishy treasures of the sea.

wishtale

Susan said, "take the deepest of breaths
and write about everything you've recurringly dreamt.''

Father carried me onto the next true adventure.
His colours wheeled around shades of off-blue.

When I recoiled at that unthinkable notion,
they urged and cajoled, "there is nothing
to fear."

Nothing—that magic word, the one
that eliminates each object until

I am saved from all that is left.

staged

the texture of your lies,
tulle scratching soapstone,
becomes a new kind of song,
a misbegotten poem.