Beetle Box

I’ve my beetle in a box like yours, so much

like hours spent feelers spread against u-

tilitarian carpet cubicle, hard shell crackled

with pock and divot, forewings tucked away.

On scuttling legs, our bugs crawl in dark,

and yet I dream of some sun dappled meadow

buzz and dewy spongegrass underfoot glow

that emanates from inside, a bioluminescent

soul song that could join a light lattice choir

to spite the sun, if not for lids we keep clamped

tight over boxes, the secret life we keep hid.

If we could only find some sort of release

we would place our bugs in a tabletop maze, race

as a means to compare my bug to yours.

(The boxes don’t open though.) We don’t know whose

is quicker, more beautiful, singing the sweeter song.

All we really know is that there’s something in there

knocking around, and we trust that it’s beetles,

that yours looks something like mine and that

maybe we’re of the same species.

Fogged Windows: A film by James D. Autio

Among the Lunar Fields

I see the yielding expand,

  eyes pressed into such bundled

    tinder, bulb waves beating.

Blew hollow wedge may catch

  of the grotto. Private flowers that

    had plum space and if I wasn’t tired

when I was cause there through.

  Taut in curious blue suit. Each day

    cleared of sleet whips. Said monkey

whisker. Said onion ape. Graph

  the touching floor, cut flash iris

    seemed hone with after whine has

away. A cluster cawl grown deft

  and there is now but a little loll

    of a more over barren tongue held

me to might have known the white

  dress seized to nearly crumple.

    We had heard both and done come,

pendulum had been in would unto

  a sour spill. Step it up. Bright shift

    for a wet moon, bird afloat

for arm space lit older we think

  the turn. Nightly we slow. No one

    said yet with this, felt to swim latch 

back along some knowledge cones.

Through Solar Fields

Pinch invent of her little trip.

It is just a bit begrudge and hard

to sang where. Sky rise in my

dainty pleasure cup. In a similar way

because you move of where that is what

make my texture. Consider then it darken

blank. This too is soon adorn simple

of both fatigue and physical buoyancy.

It seemed to sleep being like a fully infer.

Our turmoils aversion of being we were

  made loving with people with others

    continued. Control bellies being

      swept up for a balance hat. I trust

        only you, leaving opaque signals

          scratched down across

localized field grids.

Of a Poutine Niche

There is the meat gravy in the crock. Held

that had stand the sandbag berm. You were spirit

that a slant bucket trout spurts, and he disclosed

of the bent nozzle. Reflected hedge. They strip

and there tails the thin sullen turns. Whacked

to a soften ball. Been laced in deepen fat by places

the poutine use with creamy color rich, advanced

upon each milk bottle silhouette niche. Because

although the apple diet. Because when melancholy

parents suffused into their scattered flame and at

no one would poutine bear by. In a wheelbarrow.

Under the silent shrouded. Whom while I wept.

Whom do now rise to mediate, guide via whether

an emotional conduit. Poutine until both content.

Mingle Such: A film by James D. Autio

Twin Cities (three diagonals)

Owl drawing - pencil on paper

Crane, Arch and Bun

Fountain Tight

Beyond the height hill flat

            like those memory sleets

a word worn, a bloom arose.

Lean into a fountain.

            Kisses you turn to me

with hands clasped behind your back.

Jellyfish a sigh disturbed.

            The tender us

a cool body shall dare mingle with

in translucent being. And the water

            to ensconced this chilly fruit.

Our bodies press warm.

Our lips. Who would have thought that

            summer crowds merging

and isolate steps from out my down

about this facile time touch deft.

            The cottons clinging.

My hands with a dew like down niche,

moist sap. Water run the passive crush.

            Your hips, my eyelids.

Like those that this memory sleets.

(This is poem #1111)