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
skulls