Fern is a wisp-green word wriggled loose of an earth run through with the goddesss red fingers pointing to her ever-redder fingers closing around an iron crystalnot a core, but a poem.
Knee-deep in the North Sea, Sigyn empties the bowl of venom. The earth shakes; the water trembles words.
Ever cold, ever rounder: rolled by the ebb, a cursive she grabs by the tail and hangs to dry. Not a fish, but a poem.
In the Sahara the word ravishing can be held like a musk globe in a mans hand and acquire a tenderness.
His cupped palm is a pale crucible. The ash offered up, not as a sacrifice, but as a poem.
In October a farmer parts the husk, and his fingernail pierces a milky kernel.
A poem catches, like silk, in his teeth.