until when is your side under the moulting birch empty, Orion?

could be black and white, and any hue from there and what they mean at the back of a mirror

malignant eyes no other soul

twisted ankle late for a bulb implant

cankered sides the cypress hedge since long ago

wind-shaken spruce what they forgot to replace

proposal the lint in my collaris alive

the waning moon a pregnant sea 

where I do (not) exist depression suite

after the child’s dog dies a man appears holding a rubber replica

depressed all month you feed an algorithm

buffalos not being all that you become a death poem

on the tv show about knives knives

you are only half of what you think you are and the other half is potato salad

snowfall the sound of your wife’s name

gurney straps deny a rose its thorns

incense ashes so politely lavender

time becomes a snot-nosed question

with milk you draw a picture of the ocean in your inner ear