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the hens

protected by

minstrels

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“Wacky Packages

turned me into

a Situationist”

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the vine sends

leaves to where

you often put your face

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willow starts

showing her rusty

farm tools

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our thirty

minutes today

we talk about wounds

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resting on a car

the flower you found

on the ground

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a layer of mist

skims along

the fog

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I don’t tell you

you have cat hair

on your back

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just like that

the apples

are gone

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she declines to give

the scarecrow

a name

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