They say I inherited the moon in all the wrong ways— not soft, not silver, not saintly. They say I bruise the night just by

There was a year in Peru when the sky learned to burn. Not a metaphor— literal fire raining down in bursts, bank fronts blown open,

A dopamine rush of poorly placed semicolons,a saline flush to exit the daydreams formed by blue bloodshot eyes peeking above my glasses’ rim,flowing out of

The candle sweats between us.The psychic names the dead I once lovedas if reading anonymous obituaries. My high school friend Joe who often wonthe 400

Listening to songs along the riverfrontno shoes, manicured yards, nothing to aila vessel filled with prospects one sheet of color vibrates across the skylinean agent

People lose some inhibition when the canopy of stars     mock their single wide below: such beauty staring with such pity.Paint chips at the same

When you decided you were going to do it, tucking the thick blankets in the creases of the doorframe, as if they too were your

I learned to love folding a boat  out of a single piece of loose leaf. I’d make the mast high & sometimes  would add a

You Hate Reading Out Loud But we must adventure through the syllables, the steady monophthongs home warm bed   the diphthongs that slide nimble fingers

I. The reactive dance of The landscape Instigated by the wind— I am its constant audience.   II. Upon the blades of grass, Trash, Alternative