each letter, oiled with the familiar / flinty viridescence of mackerel, apostolic & fluttering down / wiped with the edge of a lungi, the frayed plaid dotting / tea terraces warbling with a green / so wet it rivers my lap, so wet it migrates my throat—from CURB, “Milestone 3 (We Are at Ease in Our Silence)”
btwn the the tiny steel frame door a small concrete portal / & a stowaway—from Unnatural Bird Migrator, “Third Space”