My heart has grown docile, less inclined to thrash about, to strain at the leash. Maybe that’s the way it goes: We come into the world like lava, we burn and blaze and flow, and then cool into something solid
In polite society we hold doors open, Say thanks and please, wear crisp Suits when we drop bombs.
One day she arrived like a scab dragged across a ballad of iodine, a sequin of stars stitched to a dormant volcano’s lapel
Dogs know how to live and die with grace. I don't. In my hands are wet grapes fit to burst and beyond my reach...
“When I have a terrible need of — shall I say the word — religion. Then I go out and paint the stars.” - Vincent Van Gogh A mystery consumes me. I pass the morning in ardent search of last night and furrow my brows as though dreams would return in the grooves of my forehead. That is not enough. Noth
We have pitched an innocent man against the thousand blades of grass. Once a week the battle is waged; each green sword glints with dew.
I promised no more poems of that night at the Alhambra, holding hands beneath the moon Lorca once adored, for to dwell on love’s sleight of hand is to
