Poetry

Waiting rooms
At stations
Begging for us to pause

Bathe in that city of yours
In its eternal darkness, and rotted fruit vines
The juice, or blood, draining itself out of you…

a woman walks down the street
the day hot, the day long, 6pm,
and full of rush

I am nobody.
Walking through the false tears
of sand,

I can get you a free quote today,/
Not right now, but I’ve been known to make them,/Stick around and you’ll hear or

After breaking bread together,/
men gather where we have for decades.

It is the madeleine that gives him away./
Well, that and the silk cravat/
pinned like a butterfly to his stiff white collar.

ladder drapes
bruised, scarred,
and charred,

There is a strange beauty
in the slow loss of sight,
for there is a progressive