Mark Bilbrey

What sigh are you

keeping, well?

What reserve in store,

what cloud before you

reap? From the leavings

of whose field harvest

wind to speak?

In the spirit of breathing I

Am before the face of I

Am in the image still I

Must eat or wear out I

Sometimes I feel

like a dog in the sky,

                  a constellation of mostly not-me.

Your snout slit: biolology miff muff myth

      Up front: scent enter

      Aside: the slag

So as they say about shall the twins meet

      And say get yers from out my line

      And a line goes one way forever