The locust references its leaves through shoji screen.

Along slick banks of morning mind

the obsession with dying. The dead, I think.

A dream I leave dripping, sunlight in my hair.

Yesterday I left a city. Its subways

moved like mice through snakes.

One season pulls away a little, which makes us ache.

I could learn to catch its fingertips.

Look the dark lake in its eye. Touch the wild

yellow iris caught in its lashes.