Shira Dentz






pray tell the trees rising ballerina arms am rusty and a
triangle of snow's left, solo, on the roof next door. 

mango a cheeky sun color. herringbone wavy like Katrina

slurp can't take you home or back say what are we going to
clasp you with get a pin got a neck this isn't this is peeing
wrap the

snaky arms in white, not bark / 
                                                sidewalk cracks.
                                                snow melted and not melted
                                                                                on the
margin of everything.
              stripes keep coming f-  old back the

trolleys zip past artichoke green for whom do you speak chance is all to my house razor sharp black gimme a chance will ya warm speech dishcloth gray. and listless now heater sounds fan twitches off coffee machine gulps a fridge resurges windows shake, muscles. and an occasional ding of chimes. fir-shaped lamps. ding ding ding glass clinks.

everything is glass lately, did you notice, glass flies,






Guilt, the bark of tree. Ready for work, someone with a cart turns the corner; heat croaks. Branches in the milky sky panting light shakes in the window leaves tousle. Fear of having alienated. "The rules are," he says, serious. His voice, bright tan seeds dangling along a mush of squash. First eat meat again, red. Next a mint blue sky, and an ambulance passing by —the mug of a cat with whiskers. The crown or carcass of a bashed up pumpkin lies on a lawn. Hunger drives you out, pillows' pleasure.






sun's dropping law in the sky, chimes waving like pigs' feet,
and i'm getting tired. kilt of light in the window a bookcase
sword-angle tilt right the roofs of houses perfect triangles.
the black mask descending principled and all.

something burning, something weighing, the descended
coasts on an iris. snow pats flower-shaped on the ground.
guess i can leave this butterfly spine in short time as the
hour's almost over creeping out like a negative x-ray spoon
it, short shrift




thinking olive patch


the view from the air,
velvet everywhere.
the line inside a painter
cliches aping trees.
the line inside a peanut,
half mark, runway.
a twin mind
streaming lines into salt-
pocked snow, craters.
minor aside,
being a boy is better
hold on to your hair as to a pink plastic goldfish on a martini mixer!
what’s important to this picture and what not
words can be discreet slabs,
if not an entirely erect penis.
anything after like should be inevitable
bosc pear on a black table:
a dachshund taking a nap.