“BIRTH”
After Carmen Winant’s, My Birth, at The Museum of Modern Art
Gilt lily
In thin inky grin
Sin liltingly
High hill birds
Tilt in
Tits milk wind
Wind rightly spitting birth
Skin rip it
Minds dimpling discs
Dirty twig spits
Yin blitzing win
Split figs
Finishes big
“Love Poem”
Walloped dust clouds
Putter by, morning
Light through
Dieffenbachia leaves, thought
Like a shrieking
Worm in the sky
And in the coming
years i’ll grow
Inflatable from it
Arthur thinks neatness
Is being stingy