Fragments by Addie Crosby

There are neumes, here, that spiral us from consciousness to the next, pass us through thought edifices and show our attempts to make the sacred out of us and what surrounds.

spiral -if I may be a
model for one thing let it be
-puddle jumping or archaic
rats, casual
anesthetic, and
a ginger beer for god.

She, instead, sets precedent for loss, slides in strangers’ daytime-windows
five years late for mystic
body scans and the remains
of grief- she grows
rosehips [still sends
sour smelling tinctures pigeon-speed]
and
underestimates the
space from

here
’til spring.


now, I drink her in
in-dry-lay
seaweed/ men I 
only just remember live in
cellared dental care/ while 
my-still-wet-brother
sleeps in-on…