writing poetry
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What it’s like sleeping on the forest floor
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≻: What it’s like sleeping on the forest floorNature moulds its own spine and we bend ours to Fit every lump and bump on the hill we harbour.…
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The Script
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≻: The ScriptNowadays we have less and less to say.We didn’t need words back then and were fluent with laughter; it wasSwinging…
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Arguments against cloning
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≻: Arguments against cloningI see my Brother in my bro-ther, myself in her.They are more similar to us than siblings:I am watching ourselves…
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Moon
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≻: MoonIn my world there was only the crescent moon, the kind of delicateCeramic, dainty throne of clavicle, pale rim of…
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I write till my blisters bleed
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≻: I write till my blisters bleedWe live like algorithms, growing out of each other. You writeWith characters, with a language that has not mothered me.…
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Dirt Blood
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≻: Dirt BloodThere is a softness about the pillowy folds of a swath of baby That elicits an urge to be malicious.…
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