Dara Wier

My head is a pincushion for darning needles. It is an egg containing its brood. It shares its nest with legions of Roman soldiers. Perhaps it is over-inhabited. It does not bite. My head is a tabernacle, it loves the small of frankincense. If my head [...]

She came in casting books from her sleeve, She came in not shivering, casting books Over the lake's surface, skipping books To other shores. He fell into the room by the lakeside Upright straight through the crack In the sky-blue ceiling with his f [...]

As when asked someone says I'm picturing your blood Traveling through your fingertips Up past your wrists. One sick cookie, I thought, Or just another anybody Toying with an idea, Another someone out to scare Oneself half-to-death, I'm picturing th [...]

It is light moving toward you or shadow moving over you. The field might be a sheet shaken at the hands of a luminous blonde. It just might belly up. Never in your life have you been touched as you have just been touched by light as it moves the mown [...]

Breath, as it leaves the seam of lips, leaves something, prepares small shafts of sun to slip in curtain folds. In drouth snakes stole toward human damp, found their way to teapots and cool twists in basement windows where some moisture lingered. Cit [...]