We lean close to admire the web / then blow on it // gently.
He has started praying – / my mother says, clenching in her hands / a blurry set of pixels.
I could tell from his voice / something was horribly wrong. / I’m okay he said over and over / in a tone that told me he was anything but.
A trickster, the ear. Making us believe/
what eyes deny or hearts might doubt,
into the folds of the purple iris which, at dawn, / becomes the hub for spider silk, filament after / filament…
My father’s body has ceased to shock me
It’s all wrong, today’s sun, / a welt in the fire-smoke sky.
William’s letter uses suicided as a verb / and really why not? The finite action // verb—without an introduction, unreduced by /
other verbs, other introductory phrases
The river has its own concerns. It loves / the human form the way fury / loves a stone.