it is a lonely spirit, isn’t it? moss-drunk swamp-sunk gathering you were the heft of pool beneath its gravity — sucked into a stomach of sky I lost you there in the undercurrents but you had laid yourself down like a grave you told me melancholy paints a violent dawn …

A poem

a bullet is the tongue of fear and an unkindness of ravens will be slaughtered, for didn’t you know? they are bad luck: singed with the slick of evil. and you ask why I do not believe in words. they are gunpowder. did you ever see a dying cat? …

A poem

I burrow into my amygdala; extract a galaxy.

I write sense until it bends me backwards — only the snap of sinews can break me out of my burial but I am not sure I want to escape. There are sweet slivers of syrup here; the thin edge of passion, the soft slip to somewhere else. We can…

Only the loneliest of lands leave you yearning — Do you ever lay your hand against the trunk of a tree and imagine it waking? A benediction for solidity, a prayer for some wiser kind of life. Perhaps that is only my holy, for I do not know what is good anymore. Who is god anymore. …

She is a question mark in June. — She is a question mark in June. She holds the days like they are newborn and she is not their mother. She is as strong as a full stop; as fragile as a rib-cage. If she is silent she is chasing birds beyond the sky again. She is September rain…

A poem