you are the sun

this happens at true noon. it happens every day. then you blink, and you forget, and you go [al]on[g] your way. but if you could remember, this is some of what you’d say:

you see true. you see you’ve come through a time of all nows made new by the shines[h]earing edge of your eyes, [. . .]


it is true. the sun is a chariot chasing a_fire. the sun is a ship in cloud-seas, climbing higher. the sun is an all-seeing eye. the sun is a ball beetle-rolled across sky. the sun is nucleicombustion. the sun is the surest sign we put our trust in.

but the sun is also a dance: [. . .]

sunborn son

with lion head and linen red, her blood runs hot, her clothes run thin. her rosettes are rosetta. her skin is her skin. she carries the snake and vulture. hers is a catabolic culture. her seven hundred statues and the rite of every day reveal the level of the reverence her supplicants swore when she [. . .]

iteration :: tear into i

in my morning shower i discovered i’d a flower in my ear. it was tight so i said “bloom” but, drenched near drowned, this flower couldn’t hear. i set it out on my dresser to dry, and went about my day; when i checked on it again at night, i found it had faded from [. . .]

wing for my woman

this is a wing. it was woven on Wednesdays. we wore it when Whim woke us early for Wren’s Ways.

this is a moon. it was molded on Mondays. my grandmother made it to manage the sun’s maze.

these are the gifts i’ve given out to represent my guarantee — one to a woman who [. . .]

the middle of things

stop. stop like the sun at its height a world across, where flowers welcome wind and not a single lumen’s lost. stop like the sun at its depth herecent-passed, where all the leaves have left us and the snow’s drifts are amassed. stop like the centerpoint between those two extremes, the Temple in the Core—you’ve [. . .]


petals peel away and fall to ground. from close enough, from small, they make a sound as they floatumble through air, come to rest on grass and soil and root. the first and second reserve the rhythm, and in their beat the others follow suit.

each one’s whisper is unique, informed by shape and place [. . .]