woven synapses and jute
stain frostbite and heatstroke
reflect me in the foothill penstemon
saffron star-spots trickle into the dirt
I'm not sure I'd be able to sleep with the ghosts
but I turn the tinge to my mouth
with a thoughtful kiss
momentary panic and splinters
static in your hair
sigh with the ceiling
we give no fault to the sand
a quiet God
in the small of her back
long lungs
in our fast of extraterrestrial embraces
let our hair be cold in the sunrise
and let the petrichor be thick
as the mountains beneath the snow


They were never meant to be together, but I like them.  My favorite lines of a few pieces, arranged as I encountered them.