Maybe my limbs are made mostly for decoration, like the way I feel about persimmons. You can’t really eat them. Or you wouldn’t want to. If you grab the soft skin with your fist it somehow feels funny, like you’ve been here before and uncomfortable, too, like you’d rather squish it between your teeth impatiently,… Read More Crush


Through all of youth I was looking for you without knowing what I was looking for or what to call you I think I did not even know I was looking how would I have known you when I saw you as I did time after time when you appeared to me as you did… Read More Youth

five hundred years

In sleep our hands find each other. Outside, the street, paved with bottlecaps— yesterday a parked car glistened, now— a mere scatter of green shattered glass. You murmur from a dream, I feel night press on my chest, like the earth tamping the dead back into earth. If we had five hundred years to work… Read More five hundred years