print previewback TYLER MILLS
Dream of the Morning Before It Split Open
I almost see your thumb
following the groove
like a river on an atlas.
Other men are peering from the slits
of tents as though the ash
light fixed them: silver
eyes opening in a pan of liquid.
What will you see
from your bottom bulb of glass?
The warp of August air
metalling the water?
Your name—like a father—calls you
from the engine. Oh. Step under
the wing: only a shadow blade. 
Dream of the Morning Before It Split Open
Hypothesis: An Interview
Negative Peeled Back from a Cardboard Album
Voice of a Silhouette