the same bag of slime
swimming the freshwater
of time, but with a pinch
of salt. How to see
yourself without looking
through the mirror: the need.
Saturation. Angled flesh, aged
and tilted. The monotonous
color of landscapes. The same
itch, the same nose. These
days I photograph my cat.
(originally published in The Wire’s Dream, 2018)
slackened falls into chaos: each plod
a sobering imprint on snow
buzzing cavernous hearts
white honey swathes the air
the dewdrop pale of her shirt, arms curved
from the door in bent-seven candles, icicled
waxen breath hissing this
is the moment sculptured to ice:
a future with gluey trees barren at night,
tongues born licking telephone poles
static moments stretched to angel hair
feel like rare dreams caught in dim light
(originally published in Scarlet Leaf Review)
Blackbirds suspended in triumvirate.
Clouds in a sea of burnt clay
mold into a blanket, the bed
unmade. Every beautiful sunset,
see the others on their phones
snap photos for strangers,
likers, digital lovers.
Lowball grandeur on a
It’s gone in a moment, anyway,
the pixelation of life,
Palm trees stand as windmills,
stilled, and they cannot fan
the vertical Culver sign,
risen like held smog.
Headlights on cars move
indistinguishably in time-lapse circles,
one after the other after the other.
(originally published in The Literary Commune – Issue #4, April 2015)