Beauty, or –

finding a name
to describe your face,
I find it on the ground: lying
limp, tattered- a muddied lace.


Nurse this ache

so she fell, easily forgetting
how the letters of his name
curved into a warning: slanting
and with the same sharp edges

as the sadness he left to bloom
in her heart, beating against a cage
of bone: a flock of birds, injured
but struggling to take flight.


Continue reading

water, again

rain raising the levels outside, you talk about being stranded, stuck within white walls and glass windows while (the door having been left slightly open-) water shyly walks in the room, dressed up in slow waves and floating dirt, voice soaking through the body of this dry world, the strangest of sounds: you strain, try keeping your feet anchored to the linoleum floor, the air in your lungs stifling a shiver, your fingers twitching, grasping at the bare space with a word water cannot understand: swim

What I notice is not the expansiveness of the sky

but the cloak of clouds, dripping gray
welcoming my day. I enjoy our conversations, the way you look

at me, yes –

shy eyes, sly             eyes, fox
eyes             on the slant of my neck, but dear,

did you really have to send me

all those letters? You knew
how letters were never fond of me. I find them

in tin boxes, neatly stacked together, snuffing             their voices
silent.                                                 I’m sorry, what were you

saying? You know how much I love                         speaking
of sadness. These gray clouds brimming wet, ready

to douse us clean.