Poetry

  • Ides of the Dancer

    She understands death before rebirth. She smells such secrets in the morning air scented in your honor: crisp, feral, transitional. There is a tincture in autumn ether; the decaying fruit will later spill seed. She can sense your world in these dewy vapors so free so free with your secrets; your masks so uncertain these

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  • This Is What It Is Like To Date A Writer

    1. You will think that she is the coolest thing in the world. A fabulous, A-plus writer. 2. She will bend and stretch all the latitudes and cartographic lines of your known world and draw maps with her words that you won’t understand. You will want to swim the waters she pours into those rivers,

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  • this is love

    i wonder what he thinks about love surely he imagines the texture of our bodies in tandem, belly to belly but does he know of a different love-gear? the kind that swells during the folding of his laundry and in inhaling the way he smells after a long day in the aftertaste of swallowing whole

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  • partition

    today, i am unpacking my inner landscapes and other topographies   rearranging the map where the meridian curved and bowed around the space of you this business of boundaries was glorious, indeed, as i creased and folded to hide the parts of myself i did not want to see if i am a country, if

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