After Celan

It is your thumb

making its shadow felt

marking where once you met and unmet

the other,

heard and unheard

the breather in the pitch black room.

Recent Posts

Bird-scream bustle you tangled arms and cars pushing and pulsing with dreams caught in your throats—gag— wait—is that a dagger I see...

My house but the rooms are not mine. Here is where I sat to escape my death, here the mirror of the many faces. Each room says “where?”...