Still, she liked what she had become. She slept in a den of sticks of her own making. Language and its judgment escaped her. Was being animal closer to God than innocence? Her voice was her breath. She was still alive.
You see the flower's form leak into itself. A self.
Some things in America still make sense.
I open my junk mail, Disney red. Your family.
Liquid uttered out into the night freezes
your dreams undone. Veracity leaves its whispers.
Make an orchestra instead. Every bitten breath