after Mike Theune

&emsp
my poems don't turn

&emsp &emsp &emsp they do


&emsp &emsp the twist.

The Garden Song of Thought

I am a three-tiered creek. I am water wisps and foliage floors, like steps to the mouth of the mountain. I open my eyes and am the bright red of five-pointed stars, a monarch butterfly quietly laughing, the cusp of my voice affixed to the brim of the crimson cluster. Purple buttercups pucker and stretch their violet eyes, yawning and happily smack their lips on leaves, clean and real and rooted.

when she

&emsp speaks she speaks

in guillemets.