Because we talk about ending our relationship on a holiday,

there is a tax on our tongues. I
feed you leaves, so we slink
like glossy apologies. Gravity ties
us to guide ropes, before the sycamore
trees collapse in our chest cavities.
I call you beauty in fine print. You
proclaim that I’m trying too hard.
Let our mouths cool into compost.

holy orders

witchdark beyond the moths
a small shadow watching


I wish we'd met while it lived; that it had taught me moth-tongue.