If I write you on horseback, I am the horse:
the ridden thing / a software of flesh / a waiting malfunction in a bridle.

entry #05

I met a logger man in the copse beside our farmhouse
who said there were no trees worth cutting down
and wouldn’t be until he died. He has a son, though,
who’ll return when there’s wood here.

I have plans for the wood-in-waiting,
as he has plans for his son.

If I write you coming home, I am the home:
the table, your chair / dressed nicely / a comely scent.

entry #19

I kindle pastoral fantasies with the eggs in the pantry,
though never any chickens to lay them.
As though poultry would make us too real
and my wishes an untimely knock on the door by your Stetson.

I’ve been collecting the clothes I think you’d want me
to take off, to complement what I imagine you’d wear.

If I write you married, I am the Mrs:
the ridden thing / a software of flesh / a waiting malfunction in a bride.

entry #37

I fear I am not young enough to bend;
that I waited too long and there’s no flesh here to pair,
only pulp for jam or cider. You could choose from many wives
and their horses and a farm with a copse to the east, facing dawn.

entry #68

entry #112

entry #901

When the logger man’s son appears, he finds a ruin and takes
the gowns I’d keep as tinder: all I made of the years.