Nicole Burgund
Ordinary World

Waterfall undress me to the

beginning where

the bruise ripens to be plucked.

 

Is it not the land?

Is there nowhere

you may not be?

Film my face closed

or the road

coiling off at choking length.

 

Something’s carving itself smoothly

out;

 

an organ metastasized

fills the cavity with knots

with eyes.