I’m swallowing words like they’re painkillers, and yet there’s still an ache lodged deep within me that I cannot quite excavate.
are what they call
when the afternoon
and we are only left
with the heavy echo
of heat and a sleepy
Están moviéndose lentamente, escuchando el pulso del mundo.
And we’ll dance like cancer survivors - like we’re grateful simply to be alive.
I fall in love with things more easily in the rain.
Things that could destroy me.
Cigarettes. Red-lipped girls. Champagne. Disappearing.
It’s just something about the way the world looks when the sky gives up.
Your redwinelips left smudges I’m still finding, months later.
Hmmm. This is difficult. TS Eliot. ee cummings. They both taught me what is great about poetry. Michael Ondaatje, for what is vulnerable. Gregory Sherl and Richard Siken, for being brave and bare. Anne Carson, for being intelligent and humble. Sylvia Plath, for being a true technician. Ted Hughes, for being clever yet honest. Thomas Hardy, for grieving. Dan Stephensen, for being different and beautiful.