The Caterpillar Speaks in Tongues I can see each segment converse with the next, a Newton's Cradle of green pulp, a susurrus and hum of tiny hairs crossing and uncrossing like rods in water-divination.
Overcomplicating Tea She tells me that poetry overcomplicates itself. I grip my teacup harder, lean into the plastic sheen of the table. You wouldn't understand, I say ' wouldn't stir for the flame's grumble or its dance
Escaping into the Sea The horses are talking again, she whispers, spinning their shouts like droplets from lank manes, and always at night. Her voice rises again: like an ocean, she says,