Imagination can // be transferred. In the / hours you are alone, / it oils the / soul.
RECENTLY PUBLISHED
Memento Vivere
ron skips across asphalt, black eyes / like stigmatas, gray-brown fur left in the street
CONFESSION
Spring is the loneliest time, but the jacarandas / keep coming and coming as if deaf to expectations.
“American Sonnet Upon Finding an Old Report Card” and “American Sonnet Whenever [Gaza/Afghanistan/Vietnam/etc.] Gets Called a Land of Bombs”
My toenails churned the dirt, searching for Earth’s weak spots: / places to root.
My Once and Future Body
Would tell you how I, fourteen, dreamt of these exact hands / In the latent underside of a wave.
