Norna stopped wondering
the threads she pulls from the lake
are endless

door-like neurons
you hide your self in a reed
and become ink

the spiral stairs in her rib cage
that’s where she talks
to bees

we ripped robins
out of melons and
our alphabet withered

The Cougher grew time-beetles
in the jello windows—
his mother’s eyes


the days we saved
by sleeping in the desert
are now apples

the purple bones
of unborn love may work
as guitars

and their strings held
between teeth in 777