Cycles
Another brown body
hits the dust, and our cries
dance,
that most undead
of routines,
that violent velleity:
splintering tight rope,
heavy flow heart.
No hands
can hold
what we’ve lost.
MICRO
Another brown body
hits the dust, and our cries
dance,
that most undead
of routines,
that violent velleity:
splintering tight rope,
heavy flow heart.
No hands
can hold
what we’ve lost.
POETRY
instead of scripture, / i read her body / as my midrash
POETRY
“anti-elegaic” and “Bloodline”
POETRY
“It's dark and after you disappear I climb down to the temple.”