the second pair of hands evaporates
above the always empty
passenger’s seat,
but the green flakes are
blooming again
after the caterpillars ate it all away.
And I’m glad
to see the gray tint
of spring in the breeze again,
glad to see the clarity of morning
down my own arms
and invisible in the blue.
What speed my feet have gained,
What patience I’d like them
to hold.


I want to reach
my arms
where suction cups
are not seen
but function like flowers
in a dense(wild)shade
and are content with
reverse bloom.
I want to reach
my arms.


Much like
White my face in the front of a spoon,
the window does not hide
White these familiar gray skies.
It’s a languid night;
White I cannot hear the bugs
except for some leftover static
White of a blood-sucking fly
in an ellipsoid
White upside-down kitchen.

remaining spaces

A different ripple falls into my lap;
it is the sound of pins dropping.
Tap my shoulders and fallen hood;
my spine is lax, my eyes are weak.
soft, soft, soft, soft, soft, Soft.
The rain is unafraid,
it fills in the remaining spaces of my forehead.