July 2017

sepia-stained
I pitch my tent
in the past

birth-gasp
my head passes through
the sweater

between you
and the you I am
the sound of

given voice 
my poem respawns
as vapour

burial mound
another myth lives up 
to its name

imagine this
see it comes to you
my sacred tree

frost-born day
time now to hear
the soundless

slivered moon
my lips come to grips
with wordlessness

mussel bound
my beard to the rock
of doubt

a drop
of water ripples
through wine