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..
“I don’t usually do this” Your mumbled half-lie drops through the air alongside his belt. Eyes dart left, then right, then left, then right..
SEMINAL BLUES (Post conversation with death) “Dying / Is an art, like everything else.” -Sylvia Plath, “Lady Lazarus” Your words do not meet..
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