She always kept fruitin her coat pocket.She liked the textureon her fingers inthe cold and how whenshe put it to herlips it was like child-hood on her tongue orrunning a hot bath.The smell would lingeruntil it simplybroke away, like smokeleaving a body,hidden in the faintsubtraction of sun.This was the apexof her distinctness.Sitting, pink as anorphan, in loyaldark; standing out likea frozen featherin the musculartrees. Advertisements

Just Like Coming Home

You grabbed hold of my leg,like a cloud, hovering above my headand sinking me in heavy vapor whenI least expect it. Out of context and yeta natural gesture. I felt like I belongedsomewhere. Not to you, but to a momentthat no one else owned. There is a placethat hangs in the air… and I don’t fear it.It is mine, and not yours, because you weresomewhere else in a conversation,for a moment…but the secondyour fingers grazed on my calf—you were present. And that []


Everything at once;that is what I have become.Object and movement; feelingand emptiness. I bend with wordsand break in silence. I see black atthe same time I sense existence.In one word [golden, charmed, decaying]I stop and remain for days, at the sameinstance I move forward with no regard foreloquence. My words, spoken andspelled out, are adolescent. Mythoughts are overgrown. Mylongings outweighed by responsibility.If I had something to run to, I might. A word I can hold in my hand. A hand I can []

Beautiful Dark

He sits across from herin a red dimly lit room,watching her mouth breathewords he has heard butcannot define. In the shadowhe can only make outthe outline of her pillowlips, moving slow as ifso cold movement is difficult. He swirls wine in his glassand smells the aroma from beneaththe table. She has finishedspeaking. He has heard herfrom the space between,where they used to be;unevenly sips from his glass and forgets the way she speaks.


The distinct nature of your handgestures are fixed in the backof my eye. I see them at the sametime I see everything else. Fingers, forearms, the small of myback. I have been regenerated. Each particle of skin—each cellhas a different impression. Nothing is supplementary. I am understanding repossession;the taking back, the waking up. The language of this heart-stirringis palpable—like a train rolling pastmy window, on a night when the windslips across my cheek like it never hasbefore. My mouth opens for new []

After Hearing of Maria’s Death

I saw her slice tomatoes as her eyesignored the tattoo of a cross betweenevery puree. Her brown palm- fading- dyeddark blue. Did he cut her hand with a steamed rusty safety pin? A broken paperclip? Carving such a symbol of higherforgiveness as the pain soon then taperedinto calm at the center of her sigh? A news reporter said they found her ina closet, crumpled like an old travelbag; been there for days. Heavy to begin-emptied of her now- he must have marveled []

A Censored Gift

If I wrote you a love poem-would that be too endless?Would it mean imminentconsciousness if I say too much;puerile and unthinking? But that must be the point. It must be a sample of a small idea—Even when too much is only a fragment,when the compactness of you and Ibecomes about restriction. WhenI immediately become familiar with every part of you—even in only seeing part. It is habitual- this censorship. The wanting,the piquancy, the stopping ourselves forothers. In moments (short ones andmeasureless ones) []

poems only

i have been asked by several people recently to send poetry for them to read, review, workshop–etc. i thought this would be a better way to share. so, here are some poems, bitches. 😉