MARY KASIMOR 

disrobing iris

the vase enslaved a      repetition of roses
placed away from a     field         
iris dies
a bird’s logic grips the ceaseless      function door
the       purple in     a white room
the primal sky         is meat
red is another        chance at life
it is     another joke
no one should disrobe     iris
as there never was        perfection
breath                     happens     is a mix up
glass cutting                 edges repeat following
another row of stones
makes it impossible to meet     reaction
crushed spiders         bundled on a treadmill
water stains
succumbing to eyes                    blue             
bulk snow                 on the corner lot
roots of pi          collapse in the middle
sky blue soup writes itself     a recipe
and pure          thoughts
devising knives                forks
beyond the         spiritual means eating
all that      blood             made an ancient birth
trees spy on            the rings of saturn
motion a magic reflex        producing us
fallen bread            on       the titanic grows
tender mold
disputes the seating arrangements      if it
were the ocean      rows of 16 ounce cans       
propped up                        the cult
an installment of shoes        a purity in
the                  flickering circus

the heir of crows

stanzas touching the balding sun began
in my hands
as pieces of the flow
physics gave me life for bravery
the mosaics counted themselves
and I bounced in the air
among other things
with small thoughts after darkness came
it saw itself
and said “circles are a good idea”
(and) “blood tastes red”
on the cold morning with two worms to keep
(me) warm
on this morning when mercury waltzes
my pen marks
fly through the air
with another row of crows