crick jointed, not knowing the name of the station or how many more corners call

sighing out, stroke the soft space where dreaming gathers and disperses

why do you sharpen your teeth hungry heart? starving for things in others hands. those others tread the same trench each facing off into...

breathe without burning this flag of yourself, revving out of a ghost town, don't pick no fight here.

this is an axe head and i watch the hands of a craftsman, something precious to be taken in the moment as is. Pause to appraise, and the...

in a country of lochs a month since a puddle, a global scourge of dry words in mouths lost to the kissing of children

the lumpy texture of regret, as if we could go back and make good! our disregard in the moment is legend

sorrow is the stickiest wrapping, the water of life has left and the residue clings even when you try to lift your finger from the...

it might not have been the day you did walk into, feel all days present in parallel under the mist

a navel twists vertigo, a two way door, senses gripping the edge of one place, slipping into the unknown of another.

awakening, the birdsong carrying the steep law, in tow a morning with a heart richer than even that lover folded awkwardly in the young...

the trenches remain through living rooms and yards and living is lost, gutted by algorithms of defence

worn thin, abrasion carrying off the skin others read for your worth, and through the hole the hungry weeds come up for air.

interruption is as much part of the process as flow, run aground, stillborn, not cherry, the cross thread of expectation

the thrust of green, swathes burgeoning, swallowing: the monopoly tips dis-ease, displacement of other worlds

stretching out your hand sweeping a circuit of possibility running a furrow like a wolf in an enclosure

a twist of fiction and beetle was beetle in Dahls peach with grasshopper rolling me from the hill to the shore

life is a cycle of retention and release. We finger an internal docket that tasks the clean

looking up, without adjusting the aperture attention jars from the micro to the macro, a rupture that floods in loneliness. attachment...

i still taste in may the log-jammed adrenal fever of exams, and the chestnut froth of city parks