my skin like an orange
sliced me in pieces
with a paring knife
squeezed out the juice with a syringe
cut back the hanging fringe
dropped the rind in a glass of gin
smiled that smile, his crooked grin
and swallowed
after he hollowed me -
He spit out the seeds.

Evening sky reflects
on the glass lake.
The soldier of a
tree carries on
through the lonesome
night.
If we could only
see the dreams of
the fish,
far from the
frying pan.

She loves the
darkness.
It’s like a scar on
her soul.
She constantly complains about
my drinking,
yet daily, she fades
to black.
Sleep, oh what an
escape, but she
rapes the sunrise with
worry and
dreams deferred.
I write by candlelight because
she’s in a  
foul mood.
It’s like a tomb.

The aroma of those Lilacs,
will be green...
Its buds...
Your buds...
Among the white dress
they move;
your eyes...
Dead summer cherries...
Among your ears
So they have voice;
your eyes...
And your hands,
 A moment;
suspended
in time....
And how burning they will be this year
the whiteness of your hands,
In the absence of
white orange blossoms
in the garden
In the absence....

They will fall to the ground...
Blossoms of the cherry tree...
Without you,
being in my womb...
ripening grain,
And the heady scent
of primrose flowers
from the moon...
and his dust...


به روی زمین خواهند ریخت...
شکوفه هايِ درختِ آلبالو...
بی آنکه تو،
در رَحِمَم باشي...
دانه اي،
در حالِ رسیدن...
و عطرِ خوشِ پامچال ها...
از ماه
و خاكِ او....

We chased a feeling
not a reality

We both wanted someone
So desperately
that we found each other

Even though no part of
us
worked

Our pieces didn’t fit together
so we pressed and jammed them
until they were stuck
and stayed that way
Until
we broke

-red flags