It is impossible to remain in the world without letting it fracture your body into thousands of splinters of desire. And it is impossible not to forgive this thing it does to you, so that you lie each night like a map folded back into itself after passing from one hand to another, or a square of cloth through which needles thread stories of flowers and convulsive vines. The curtains breathe like lungs. One sweet pepper pulses like a heart of green in its pot. Everything seems most alive in the heat as well as in the absence of heat— Our histories: fistfuls of seeds gleaming inside dark bodies. Singular as any wound, something unseen others think they can buy or steal.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.