If you poke them, like a child’s sea anemone,
They will squirt up citrus giggles
And you’ll forget the sour sadness inside.

But then again, there really are too many lemons,
And they hang so low, pulling the tree to the ground.

fish.

i close my crescent lids
i am a salmon, flipping in the air, and then
i am in my room again.

Silver Dollar Lakes

The land seen from big-sky is
A sidewalk with Big-farms
Holding cozy, shiny coins
Between slabs of corn.

I pocket the silver dollar
Lakes I see from my seat
On a Texas bound plane.
I’d pick them up
If they were pennies,
Face down even.

Glances.

A world of glances.
Each one a gust of wind
                              That pulls at the lungs.
                                                  Too many eyelashes to confess
Away the faces.
                              Wind.

Bring me back those two little organs.
So that, again, I may glance them away.