Photos of honeycomb and bees have been layered into a rectangular repeating background.



There are things we people lack.
Scales. Feathers.
And things for words for people
have but not the words
are for:

All for eating.
Maws, too, for eating
animals. (Whose
ever heard of a hum
man with a maw?)
I have
mine. I mean –
– while
            ugly, the maw
is mine


Spring forths its stems.
Earth proves again to weather.

Snow has given way to tenderness:
dirt gently impressed.

All is gleeful dizzy garden-drunk.
The water warms
and so enjoys the act. The whole tide

like the tide

which brung beauty back against all laws
of grammar.

Spring is all of us
the bougie flowers, damned
communist weeds

pairing with pollen-pregnant bees
and hanging chrysalids.
Joy is a body

whose special halo
sounds the hum of the year’s
first-born sun.

Where have we been
all this time? Who maps the dry cross-
hatching life between our fingers?

Park and pond
and lily-pad and toad
we newly name the countries

made as we feel
countries ought to be: friends
Friends who kiss.
(On occasions such as these)


(after “Making of” by Franny Choi)

Cyborgs are made out of words.
Cyborgs are made out of things

named cyborgs.
Cyborgs are made out of things only

things if you squint at them,
just like their male and female counterparts.

At midnight, I clasp too
hands across my abdomen, pray

to be so small and vast
the cloud will have me.

My prayers are prayers in drag,

who enumerate in wordless codes
fitted to the human throat

*This poem first appeared in trampset literary magazine.