I have heard the flames
hunting inside your glossary.
A starling calls
from my folded window.
I won’t outgrow next year’s stone.
Beneath your cordilleras,
ripe artery exhibit,
I take my feed, I drink
my childhood thread.
I find no stamps
in your red lagoon,
only scent of paper burning.
Last breath happens
when last word has been seen.
You are the pound
of pink cold
unlocking from the water’s spine.
Erin Case, Juice (collage)