Valerie Witte

These skins | triggered | antennae detecting animated

speech | Branches, small birds (or was it girls) we laid

down lengthwise | to interpret fossils

rhythmically arranged | inside the transported sometimes | Inclined

(what she called digital enhancement) | to inject by wearing a kind

of delicately articulated | Translation: was there an accident | traces

rarely yet a ribbon wrapped

round the grave-digger’s daughter | Didn’t she scream | a progression

of horns on the backs | of wings, incarnations | She was no longer

wild, a dormant moth, unbound |