It was Maxwell
can be extended.
My theory is
it is possible
if we are infinite
strings of numbers,
if an unknown
of remaining days
makes us immortal.
as I can
just to feel
does the universe
with the heart’s
The night sky’s
(originally published in Columbia College Literary Review, Spring 2017)
i know it’s the other way around
but i see the dogs in people
that intense hunger of waiting
by a wooden door so close to the thrust of opening
i want to eat the walls that keep you away
the doorknob you twist to leave
the blankets you always hide beneath
i hold my waste for hours
the measured discipline
when you speak your breath is memory
what you’ve consumed
i can’t look anywhere else
push me away i cling to you a vestige
of humanity is all remains the last living thing
who would love me
you and your bureaucratic affection
the withholding of every emotion
makes you vulnerable
i was born to want you by my side
like a star holds to gravity
before its collapse
some adherence to light
before the drift
the absolute zero of desire
far from the wild where
we were raised to want
close to where we want to be
(originally published in Viewfinder Literary Magazine, Summer 2016)
The only good thing in this city
is my 1968 Coupe– long, slick, olive
green. Brakes, good. Tires–
fair. I may have worn the rubber too quickly
the way I sped through red lights after you said Jesus
would save me in these hard rains that summon
mud from yesterday, hell onto asphalt, and hiding
under the sheet you wouldn’t show me
your face anymore, said everything
turns to wine in time, but in this city there
are thousands of dry fish waiting for rain,
and you can be a kind of Jesus, you can
redeem your soul for bread.
(originally published by Eunoia Review, Fall 2016)
Before you had a name, you were a stranger
searching for one.
Gravel, asphalt, salt, and stone–
I pieced you together, a church from scratch,
your holiness in my uttered breaths
of limestone, mortar, love…
your tall steeple stabbed the sky.
I could hear clouds dissipate,
crows caw and congregate
in our mutual worship of you.
Maybe you never needed a name.
When you vanished, my heart
reconstructed itself with God’s rubble,
compounded from type-two plastic,
Coca-Cola cans, rubber bands…
I never learned your name. With my mouth,
my body aflame, your steeple burned.
Bricks and timber screened
the sky. The smoke and fade–
the gray, the fog– that
was your name.
(originally published in Pudding Magazine, Winter 2016)
(originally published in In-flight Literary Magazine, Fall 2016)
Cold fronts enter spring, but cardinals
sing their frigid songs despite soft snow.
Red lips still curl over the sidewalk’s cigarettes
but warmth dissipates when smoke leaves the body.
Pale hands reach from corners of blurry photographs–
push through crowds of these-were-my-lovers–
tines of bright puncture darkness. Negative dust
turns to light: the telescope observed your eyes
wandering the dark. Believe the perched cardinal
is lost love thinking of you who sculpts the moon
out of papier-mâché– scope the abyss for stars
but smell the art’s silver crumble on your skin.
(originally published in Thirteen Myna Birds, Fall 2016)