i held my breath till it whistled  
   // like a kettle with a grudge //  
the moon’s face flickers—  
     too lemon to trust,  
     too god to look away from  

(you see it too, don’t you?)

   // the men in glass shoes  
   stomping on the grass  
   call it progress //  
& we clap like good teeth  
    like teeth that belong  

i woke up with hands full of gravel  
     (my spine still replaying  
     that tuesday when  
     the news kissed me on the mouth
     58 dead in Gaza  
     it tasted like iron)

       i’m not built for this century  
       i was born on mute  
       but everyone’s shouting  
       inside  
       their suits

someone’s building  
       a new god  
       in the basement  
       of a pharmacy  
            —says it kills the fake
            —says it’s making the world great again

my chest is full of alarms  
   but they only go off  
   when i sit still  

i tried to pray but  
    all the vowels were sold out  
    so i just hummed  
    till i forgot the tune  
    or the meaning  
    or the shape of  
            safe

          (what was that again?)  

    don’t look at me  
    i’m just another scarecrow  
    made of receipts  
    mouthing  
        please stop
        in perfect  
        passive  
        silence

is round, and

round  the table,

the few.



spoke in tongues

of age and wisdom.



smiled the crease

of ages.



so while all is flung apart,

we watched, waited.



we were near the sea.

for just a [world’s-ending] longer

and the sand ripples with approach / in a story about the origins of a land



Possession v. Belonging/ left in the stairwell


an unclaimed thing : the nature of pantheon, revealed.

alongside gestures of despair,

may communicate thought

better. or worse?


so lets  be singular

enjoy our own space,

and be friends, forever.


she says that you

cannot see some people’s souls,

perhaps we need to look harder.


there is a lot going on.

there are a few, those who should tidy,

those who pump and clear, those who

investigate.



water beetles float their legs, paddle

the river, dimpling surface. hang on

the bridge , warming back and watch.

water men wear high visibility, while

the beetle shines black.



we have cut the paths

and planted bluebells.

a dream punch(whispers)in velvet static)  
                    —the ring is (not) a ring  
but a looping lullaby of  
  (blood+waltz)    &  catgut halos      shaped  
     like tomorrow’s shadow  
  
he speaks// with  
         /fists(  
            not mouths  
          & not fists) either  
  
             only those    little  
                 starlings  
     trapped in muscle /breathing
  
   || when he moves  
    it is not a dance but  
             the unwrinkling
             of time’s suit  

see?  
   sweat glints like  
        tiny gods  
           (shivering)  
       on the ropes—  

he jabs  
            (you)  
     //but through you—  
             like  
a film of a bird  
     passing through  
             a mirror  

and i hear—  
          music        where he  
                    ducked  
       (flutes in his knees  
                hymns in the knuckles)

((who said war  
      couldn’t wear  
             silk?))

                  —somewhere his mother’s  
                        voice calls  
                              through a referee’s  
                                     fingers  
           “raymond”  

                      the way  
              a Sunday morning  
        breaks its own silence—  

but  
he is (already)  
                gone  
into that punch  
                like a  
paper moon  
folding  
           inward—  

                      .         .           .

(he never lost.  
  he just  
   became  
      echo).

catching a moment
in a jar

and its gone
before you see it

before you put the lid on
you are lost to a daydream.

the cops are at the door,
open the window,
toss me my running shoes.

out the window I went, left heaven,
down to the narrow street
into the welcomed night.

(my fair weather fade away.)

you have the prettiest eyes
the sky ever knew

so please don't be surprised
to find me one day at your window

some cold december night
holding plastic flowers for you

so love the thief who tried steal your heart,
and plastic flowers never fade.

I'm just a sparrow
longing for sky
and if I had wings
I could fly.