peeling back layers of purple onion she weeps Read more

Morning in History Park where you once walked upright, smelling of suspicions. Read more

She sweeps evening dust off grout lines with the straw broom Read more

I want all your Sundays— naked on the sofa Sundays Read more

On the last train from the city, she sat across the aisle and talked about sex-having saints. Read more

four years the only control I’m allowed is my breath Read more

the one made up of consonants and super hero punches Read more

a dispassionate rain sprinkles colors onto glassy morning tracks Read more

silvery faces the color of molt skin odors tasting of rice wine and warm dish towels Read more

I go on holiday to where the Other lives. Read more