She stopped eating until she was nothing but right angles and sharp edges. It was if she couldn’t understand the math of the world she lived in, so she sought the neat geometry of the curve of her hollowed hips, the bend of her wishbone elbow, and the measurements of her rag doll ankles.

  You came from clear air
  Pure sky
  Of our being
  Wellspring of desire
  Your fierce intelligence pressing on me
  There are not enough minutes to the day
  Show Yourself
  Your lips
  From which issue
  The flaming tongues
  Of my poem

Aer glan

As aer glan a tháinís
As spéir íon
Ár mbeatha
As tobar ár ndúile
D’éirim á brú orm go fíochmhar
Níl dóthain nóimintí sa lá
Nocht Tú féin
Do bheola
As a séideann
Teangacha lasracha
Mo dháin

I watched his heart break
it dripped all over his shirt
a dark crimson swamp
I kept my distance.

I watched him fall to the ground
moving his hands across the ground (contact-searching, seemingly)
he had this look on his face of:
“where is it?”.

I thought
“I should help him”
But I knew no matter what
I’d never see those heart pieces.

it's kin
da
like that]]
when
if I left
my earphones in

and forgot
and in the back-ground
some-thing's playin'
but
I've got
opened too many tabs
can't figure
find out where
it's coming from

to x out of it

you dream,
you hope

10w heartbreak, heart-hate,
death

you dream,
you hope

broken dreams,
night time poetry:

'time you dream.

She is the brightest star
        in the night sky.
But in the morning,
        when the sun comes,
            
              *she is nothing.

The shadows have their seasons, too.
The feathery web the budding maples
cast down upon the sullen lawn

bears but a faint relation to
high summer's umbrageous weight
and tunnellike continuum-

black leached from green, deep pools
wherein a globe of gnats revolves
as airy as an astrolabe.

The thinning shade of autumn is
an inherited Oriental,
red worn to pink, nap worn to thread.

Shadows on snow look blue. The skier,
exultant at the summit, sees his poles
elongate toward the valley: thus

each blade of grass projects another
opposite the sun, and in marshes
the mesh is infinite,

as the winged eclipse an eagle in flight
drags across the desert floor
is infinitesimal.

And shadows on water!-
the beech bough bent to the speckled lake
where silt motes flicker gold,

or the steel dock underslung
with a submarine that trembles,
its ladder stiffened by air.

And loveliest, because least looked-for,
gray on gray, the stripes
the pearl-white winter sun

hung low beneath the leafless wood
draws out from trunk to trunk across the road
like a stairway that does not rise.