The Answer

There was a wind winding down from star to sea, whipping along eastern ranges, whispering strange words in accented syllables, a Romanian Shakespearean rag, sometimes humming something from The Weekend. Sometimes a muse must be answered. There were scrubs worn in the imaging room, fancy dress for after, the hint of musk on curving neck … Continue reading The Answer

Burning Autumn

In the autumn, with leaves burning, safety as children running embers floating in the air. And I am burning leaves again. The tulips i pulled from your garden how you say me hiding, behind our pine. Eyes wide. Knowing that you were one person. And about to become another. How. You. Yelled. And how it … Continue reading Burning Autumn

Lost Maps

...as a child, the sun on my cheeks, warm grass under bare feet, running up green, undulating hills, rolling down their far sides. Our laughter. Blue sky, wheeling birds, puffs of clouds, cotton wisps, kite scudding below. Thinking "This. This, then, is happy." A place I would access, had accessed, over and over... limitless, and … Continue reading Lost Maps

Russian Idyll

A Russian summer, nostalgic and dreamy, textured and spare, Bunin's landscape and lovers - all under the sun, in sunflower fields, awaiting inevitable snow... awaiting, perhaps, the exile's return from Paris, from Nobel - like Gorky, poor Gorky, the dead son, the shuttered villa... ("I dare say it's time for all us nineteenth century writers … Continue reading Russian Idyll

Eh…

These things I warrant, and see, these ghosts, aspirations and hopes these fading things. My eyes, in a cracked mirror. This ghost, clattering... I talk so fucking fast. A poet of listicles. Shallower than Plath. No clue where my inner Prufrock sits. As if there could be another... Failure, to be clear, bounced repetitive, just … Continue reading Eh…