Poetry

Eyes meet the way southwestern rain collides with dust.Standing there painted white like a goddess on a milk crateAt the corner of Hollywood and Vine,You remind me of Cabo in 2010With

A burial dress, hand-stitched virus of what we are—you’re so cynical. Imagine it isn’t only clothes. Say you build watches & have something to prove. You wind it up &

And the first muck of morning light, the old man wakes his daughter’s son from a half-dream of scales and ice, their johnboat drifting through the reeds. The boy fumbles with the

All the plants are weeping in the heat the black cats laze on cool stone the beads trickle down the brow and down the back And the thirst is never ending

OH King of grief! (a title strange, yet true, To thee of all kings onely due) Oh King of wounds! how shall I grieve for thee, Who in all grief preventest me? Shall