Work wood on a potter’s wheel, mold it, / warmly glowing with oil eased in so it / forgets that it was never soil, never clay.

so married / by skin / even my fingers rush to study / every dry groove you carve across / my own face, our face, / the single self, splitting into / foil and forgetting

The knight shone brighter / and smiled wider than the / princess who would be his / bride and said, “I have done / It. I climbed the cliffs until / the clouds wove fog from / my breath.

Kongamato has breath like tendrils / of leathery fog.

You may pick one, says the goblin chocolatier. / The box is a vibrant garden of sweets neatly arranged. / A sugar rose so real it seems grown, stolen from some witch bramble of candy thorns and gum drop hips. A truffle banded white and blue that smells of fresh cut grass and rain.

Herb lore and craft, the art / of speaking to trees. That the best / paths through a garden never run / straight. To cherish the wild places, / and enter them with a bowed head and an open heart.

The clock is ticking. Go / look for the black mariposa-colibrí. / Se nos va el tiempo.

I am standing next to / the unsunken earth, / not yet a part of it / though I wonder—

Sometimes, when I speak, it comes out in bubbles—