I Your fingers traipsing across my face taste like cigarettes Smells I use to hate taste so lovely when they tickle my nostrils winking..
A poet’s work is to name the unnameable, to point at frauds, to take sides, start arguments, shape the world, and stop it (from) going..
LOVE CAME TO DESOLATE CITIES Old bones are percussion instruments Colliding to music played in buried cities. Most cities sing a funeral dirge to..
heat you spoke to me in the language of divinity: your words, a prophecy. your touch, a laying on of hands – a prelude..
lakes and confessionals i kneel before the confessional. the priests’ voice is driftwood on a lake of abuses; it reminds me of beatings. how can..
KNOW US BETTER
Please Add Widget from here