Reading Yew Nork made me feel like I was huddled beneath the streetlamps of Paris gathered with Surrealist poets, André Breton and Benjamin Péret smoking Galloises. Except this was possibly New York’s Gotham City and Dale Jensen was my guide.
Maples wrap branches around my rib cage,
a trap of orange and gold leaves filter translucent light,
and like an unsuspecting moth, I’m sucked in
A giant’s missus walks in the fields, steals hay bales to use for curlers, wraps her wiry locks around each one stuck with a branch for a bobby pin, blows
When I turn on the morning news or listen to the radio in my car, I pray not to hear the black blot of another beheading or rape, hundreds executed
no daily warbles bringing each other up-to-date, take-offs and landings, welcome homes and toes curled around each other in bed, retreat inside my nest, gather up frayed feathers like a
A shell seeker who bends down from the waist,
nipples bid the wind good day