selections from the chapbook

I saw a woman with tidal hips walk out into an abalone sea,   unclothed as a fish.
her hair hovered the surface, black kelp,
and when she dipped beneath,




the picture with one perched hand
on an iron gate of palm fronds.
I know better than to ask who you think of.




            and in the street
the violet bouganville I wrap my hand in a scarf to pick
and tack to the ceiling hanging down - paper forest,   spoolwind.  

what we return to cannot be kept. your clothes
across the floor, the fish floating
like low clouds you say, naked, standing at the window
with your back to me.

I tie my little face up.
I tie my little face up in my hair.