I

Around my neck who knows how history made a voice out of silhouette.
From my lips a hand tore
away in tragedy
the chord
that screamed for more.

II

Time was a pebble I threw into the bucket of space.

III

Today the pond was patient.
Swallowing from the hot dust
the stupidity of the shadows.

IV

The light was hanging from a branch,
bending space like the surface of
a habitual dewdrop.

V

The mirror is red with rage.

VI

The world is still glowing, next
to an enormous fire.
I picked up a shadow that was untouched.

VII

I was just waking from the misery of being born in a place so big, I’d never see it all.

VIII

The streetlight turned red.
Grass burning
through the wings
under the sight of the moon.

IX

No one dead has come back
to tell us
anything.
It’s nearly midnight,
there’s no exception
to that.

X

How decisive is the blindness
of the storm
& the twigs are still shivering
in memory.

Xi

When murmur is no longer a labyrinth,
when I see the teeth biting the dark
and how the depths of earth
have been waiting for me
behind a cluster of
soft sorrows.

 

 

Contemporary Poetry