HAIR THING


Your senses are sharper
when you don’t cut
your hair. Wren says,

it’s an old thing.

sharper for what?
I ask. For war,
says Wren,

it’s a war thing.

Wren shrugs
when I wonder
what war?



blue cento

my blue body
red as war
under him.


The heart

The heart / splits open like / a frost flower—


Mad

We are one tremendous
field of undulating
flowers

waiting till it happens