His Sounds
at 13 months
Different-sized fiddleheads are questions coming up
and thinner-stemmed dandelions also
mean asking
Small scoops dig all the time into salt mounds
Being fine threads
and strings to tie up the meat
and lengths of rattail cord
his sounds bind me to him
Wrinkling tissue is a fraction
of the pleasure he takes in chrome
Alert!
Unhappy/somewhat
in the form of wet static:
a radio in a storm
[In the front seat I say to myself
is somebody
back there?
Because how can it be
there is somebody back there? . . . ]
A spine made of moths, wings pulsing
Dried leaves scrape over my neck
Next comes a long unfolding of a map
An antique piece of machine
goes around
and around
lever cold in the hand
slow, slow
slower—
A stream of rusted water:
that’s him coming to a stop
Better hurry home 
His Sounds
The Imagination, Drunk with Prohibitions
Suicide Cascade