The woman with a not quite toddler on her hip weaves at a loom. / She is full of is and she is standing. How she weaves with one hand is / a mystery, even to her. But it has something to do with bone / straightness of her back.

a turtled neck for the times   i have been afraid     to stick one out for them  /   minding my own business the occasional pardon when i have not

I saw a seraph sitting outside the coffee shop / drinking a latte with a double shot / eyes like busted headlights, / wings of baby's breath and barbed wire. / He was Facetiming his lover / telling him about the blood between his thighs / and picking at the mothballs on his sweater.