Michelle Paulsen
weekends of walking into the you grow tired a strange sudden
in storms
week-ends of
tourists, streaming up
up to see the
trees, irridescent and
sugary-sweet, speaking of
collar-bones and
syrup. right in
front of the
house, the singular
birch; no longer
subject, you peel
and peel
and wait
for illumination
revelation and
staring at a naked
up on his there is something
then there was the it may be a
snowflakes are fireflies for driving in the there is a