More on: Poetry

From his balcony, the night sky is a portal to a pinhole
of other lives—some barely visible.

God is a watering hole, I dreamed

Each day, my I changes forms. It’s why I stick to the sonnet:
I like the continuity of it—each day with its plan to queer the Diane.

I stand beside my mother & her tree, picker in hand, ——–—extending the rod, aiming for an apple in apparent ecstasy, fullness aflame, ——–—aquiver in the favonian breeze, brilliant as the seed that gave it birth ——–—when its need in the soil first cast a vision for this grandeur: autumn day brandishing ——–—sapphire sky, air…

Loneliness, everywhere
Within especially

Folded into myself

I’m a shadow cast by the moon in a cold pass at midnight, far away.

It’s a war you shelter.
You shelter it inside your God.

It’s the body that’s alone, a harbor
waiting for new ships.

I’m constructing
a heaven of pixels like tiny, vibrating dimes, falling stars
I can scoop up and offer in two hands.

what a way to go
siloed high up
like he was