Poetry

I recognize that light, on the home of my body, in the shine of silver.

just 30 seconds and you can do almost anything, in any language.

There is no longer a clock on the wall to tell you when to read, when to feel compassion, when to love.

The world used to be a roomy place. How small it’s become, how pinched, how tightly squeezed in we are.

Can’t handle my generous abundance, my lipo’s vibrato? That says more about you than it does about me, bro

I drink your water late into the night and I see everything.

The moon swears she has every fighting chance in the world.

a woman erases herself

I’d be content for a while stepping around the bodies

I’d taste a basal craving for that sharp, repelling scent.

Although giving up had never crossed my mind / It did sound good...

No one cared for what lay under that grey curse, for where a tiny bird dropped its egg...

We think we know, but we are floating in a comatose space.

... the only thing I know is that words come after words until they don’t.

I used to be afraid of the visions, especially in the woods at night.

The taste of salt carries memories that are not his, stories that Chilloo has never heard.

swimming in words is it any wonder that when I surface and speak I sometimes say the wrong thing

The lynx weren’t consulted, the black bear, never told.

An iguana moves to catch my eye. Time seems to stop. These lost creatures stare, tell how they were pulled from their burrows . . .

If forgiveness is the price of peace, it is one that many people in the aftermath of war will find impossible to pay.

One lifetime only a world without wars, and peace to sustain, you see – no other territory to conquer – the tree growing taller...

Soon the veins and arteries of cities are clogged with caravans of the outraged.

... you ask the boreal forests named after Boreas, the Greek god of the north wind ...

... see which lives we lift and those we lay down in the silence ...

I have to get up close and personal with the feijoa tree...

We can’t understand each other’s words—I am a stranger she wants to welcome into her wavering world...

a path of olive trees filled with booming laughter now whispers beneath a barrage of bombs.

When we're all in bunkers on Proxima Centauri b, who’s to say we won't destroy those oceans...?

God sits next to her in the playroom as I distribute plastic pizza slices detached at their Velcro hips.

Behind every Palestinian life taken is the kinetic force of a thread-link snapped and the First Law of Thermodynamics is always at play.