like the owl
full of awe and cold the heatless things border your face my fervid wish the borders of my attempts my suspicions yet viciously caressed as if daylight gone feral lifelong problems with elocution yet similarly glimmering at times a noble due to pearls covering the sticky purpose of need poised in the now as know not need like your face the fringe of hair across your forehead
a life in camouflage ends in comatose
orchids inside us organs maggots after let's not speak about it flailing against molten deathmasks stiff glow of stinging petals intact namelessly we are obsessively fermenting secrets impervious to odors indecipherable to the inelegant and tawdry are the clumps of reticence that spears us in the only place we really know scars corrals railroads popping veins nameless is our desire to be vanished a life of camouflage ends in comatose that is the tragedy wilting shadows showy façade though snow in its whiteness covering soot in its garbage peelings covered in white each frost pane of glass we breathe into
Bobbi Lurie is the author of Letter from the Lawn and The Book I Never Read.