Folds. Folding down

together in a group: sliding them around on the floor.

Tilting like a choking child (oneself), two splitting arcs,

two folds

on the inside. In back of. Value? Untouch,

untouch in tree sky, someone in tree sky, tree sky . . .

the internal color

bobs as I walk, flashes. I

pinched the flesh into a little wing.


Continue reading “In Tree Sky by Oliver Strand”