Did anyone think about cleaning advice / for carpets stained with enchanted detritus / the silt from a thousand journeys

She didn’t cry when it happened. / She knew before the news told the story. / She knew in the way that a woman knows

Spinning languidly in a particle stream / forfeited to gravity and the final dead cold / lies a slender needle-ship / glinting against stygian space.

For weeks— / gather bones. / Meander underworld.

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.