It is hard to not hate
myself, the self who’d rather/ turn inward as dusk spirals
into its Tang dissolve. And isn’t ruin, too,/ a thing to celebrate?

Ars Poetica, age 4 four-year-old hand caressed that plastic world & beheld its cerulean tilt & spin

Prayers to My Stutter #1 and #3

Prayer to my stutter #1 Here in the red hour of repentance, how many layers of mystery do you wear? I am among the arches of your name. When midnight arrives will you be there, yet again, to drape your song on my shoulders?   Prayer to my stutter #3 Set me in the nest […]