Prose & Poetry

In the middle of the night When you wake and can’t go back to sleep Close […]

Come sit with me for a moment. I am the observer mind and you built me.

After Diderot Speak of the devil and mark The changes that occur. It is             The

             One can hear the hair of the dead grow —

at dinner, he tells me about the anolis he found,hands animated, describing the pulseof its throat,

On most days I have to remind myself not to go the places you went when I was

I miss in the missing Touched by wind-flood Its fingers swirl about Features I often fought

I fell in love with a man who eats clouds with a spoon carved from rainbows.

You held my wind whipped cheeksin your calloused pale palmsand told me, just how tendercheeks can