breathe in.Read More
THE SMELL OF FOOD AND FORGETTINGRead More
but also her morning songRead More
This old watermill of your mother
creaking in wooden tightness against
water flowing like a body in ecstasy.
why do birds leave for the winter? the ones who sing?
but the gray pigeons sink into the snow and wait patiently.
In her eyes, you will become the city I live in. There are some hours in the day
when I do not think about love.
We are full of flames and woe and bad coffee drank hurriedly in the mornings.
full of half held hands at the frontier of a war we signed for,
passing each other in the hall of an early morning
full of the cries of children and bills.
The heart is not a haven
into which the lovers slip through
it is the eye of your storm
buttonhole of hell.
The wind is black when it rains
but at night you can’t hold onto me.
And I was instructed not to initiate.
Every pocket of her face
hides small fragments of my heart
— pulling down.
I become fond of this girl taking, claiming, her space in you.
- in|reversRead More