from Skin Horse

There were fennel lungs
and they licked their way
up the hair.

Every forest wants its mirror.
Wants radar domes.
Wants to watch into the mirror,
to la la pin la back the great, sweet lungs,
wish for anise,
comb
into the family
like an error in a tooth,
suck in the thick ridge
of lumber
and fucked up linger
on the edge of itself.
It will always happen this way.

Please, forest, weave them out.
               Red Ron if mollusk be, Come step did you see me.
The forest’s mirror
breeds deep
mollusks and drips snails
and announces in gnat fog
This is real. This is all in. The meat hut
is closed. I can touch the weep of them all.
My brother has a face on the bone.
Forest, please. Why does its
looking keep them?