top of page


I could never cast my shadow to the dark

or light without losing sight of the seams

that allowed me to hold light and therefore

dark in the first place.

When I cast my memories to the fire, they

simply resurface in purple smoke

and an opaque fog, brewed by stewing

in pressure to earn its obscurement

in a simmering seethe tracing

back decades of accumulation

and a will to spread. I am unsurprised

by what I have to give to call forth

its succession: hot air, blood, a

fallen branch.

All one and the same.

10 views0 comments

Recent Posts

See All


bottom of page