Muddy streambed
lets in no light.
The eye turns back
into its den
and sleeps.
top of page
Recent Posts
See AllBird-scream bustle you tangled arms and cars pushing and pulsing with dreams caught in your throats—gag— wait—is that a dagger I see before me? Could it be the space between the subway and the unendin
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?” and invites me out into its own obscure machinations.
bottom of page