b r o o k l y n c o p e l a n d

b r o o k l y n c o p e l a n d

From trees
	From these forbidding elses we stride laced by hand towards unceiled dusk— quickened I think is the word for our pace & you— pitch creek rocks upward to summon bats from trees.
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April
	April integral— each night an event— we find in mismatched Coke glasses Svedka, chokeberry wine— I clutch your musk your brine to my breast & goad.
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Painted Acrid
	Cloying dome— ratty covers over you hovering over me. Corners frame mown fields. Those hellfields of snapped stalks, lather & litter blur a color hostile— thrusting detachment lending itself to heartfelt respect— meanwhile hairpins rust your soapdish—
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BROOKLYN COPELAND lives just outside Indianapolis, where she was born and where she works as a yoga instructor and in a winery.

a l i c e b l u e t w e l v e

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