Sara herself did not know the people throwing the party, but
she went to the house in the woods anyway.
We chant around the grill in our backyard every Friday the 13th to scare the neighbors who told the Homeowners’ Association our violet paint job was garish.
Out here the din of tin on tin hangs
just below an orphaned smudge of cumulus,
threatening fickle weather.
A farmer was wandering through his orchard at harvest time, when he saw an apple hanging from one of his lemon trees.
You told me north water
was not built by virga
but from suicide of the moon.
I will do the nursing. The suckling and swallowing. He will do the singing.
Now that my pen is made of glass
I pray to write of this loud tree
and not simply fashion
Once lived a woman wrapped in a magenta skin so brilliant she glowed, but the story doesn’t start like that.