I put you up in my arms; the room is dark the open window breathes the western sun of so many afternoons, pouring onto your little face, like golden g...Read more

with cupped hands they sit, waiting with stained collars felicitated around their necks. look how the skin drives away in brisk dead tributaries. you...Read more

drugged trumpets don't blow, there are no fireworks of celebration. so here I speak: in the voice of trailing branches, reeling on human shoulders. ...Read more