It’s good to be incendiary, lit up,
Sparked heel to crown.
Generations are contained
in her wrist bones, in whether she can
constrain the nature of the bird.
You’re tempted to find God in every abandoned landscape:
twist of black road snaking through dry grass, shroud
of white hotel cotton, blank heaven that cannot conjure
I got my legs waxed. I needed someone
to hurt me a little.