Poetry

Late autumn, November-the-somethingth, how you’re supposed to know what to do when someone says, play dead—but you don’t, you asked for a story, but were given a body failing another

Strolling the malls, in the bauble-bright late Fifties, My schoolmates’ parents could be nonchalant. Not mine. Already earners in the Thirties, They’d known the rancid tang of actual want And window-browsing made

There was a man of double deed, Who sowed his garden full of seed; When the seed began to grow, ‘Twas like a garden full of snow; When the snow began to melt,

The razor’s wet and ragged glint goes shining on the face it shaves. You suck in air—aloe and mint. The razor’s wet and ragged glint marks your oath, takes devotion’

The problem with the tropics is the problem with mankind: there is no neat conclusion to the analogy being presented. In the same way, there is no subsequent comparison that makes more sense