The ice hook untwists inside the whirlwind like a tail.
A raven’s rib ripped from the electric socket
heats the palm,
its rusted core bound by the apple’s shaven hide.
Like a concussion cushioned between fingertips—
egg batter congeals in cracks of concrete.
The fourth generation of bees flee the unlocked mouth.
The stoplight blinks
midway between wing, beak, and worm
unwinding inside braided corn husk,
pulsing near the foot of the interrogator
as he slams the gate shut.
Every atom belonging to him, says:
You there—hook and worm,
you there—carved pebbles tucked under the glacier,
your apathy grows like gray hair in these untied shoes.
The tundra’s anvil and spine
are flung back into the quarried pockets of the pilgrim.
The “safe feeling” blossoms next to the caged wren.
Motor oil trickles from the harpooned log.
The Milky Way backbones the nervous system of the stream the deer sips.
This is where I broke the ice,
broke the sun’s neck,
and the city raised its sunflower above a pond of gathered lice.
The storm took care of it!
Reached down, hammered them flat.
Walls erected, stoned down, down,
and as we fled,
we unbraided our hair from the fan belt of the exhumed engine.
One twin kissed the other in the uncovered wagon.
We watched them unravel from their neckties,
and took the shape of rain clouds blotting out the noon sun.
In their houses—
The long night gloved the mist inside our gills.
And I stained the plaques clean,
memorized each brick flung from the window,
while roosters crowed the grip loose.
Who made them leap from shelves unnamed?
Made them buckle down low,
pulled out by their tails
from between each lie cupped inside another one?
A spear was driven into it—
Underneath the pilgrim’s skirt:
the skyline of a missing tooth.