Black tea cools,
bitter cup;
sun sets
soon;
little lemon wedge
drowned at the bottom,
sunken yellow crescent,
solemn, sour moon.
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New Muses for a Posthuman Age
Late last year I wrote a 10 sonnet sequence entitled New Muses for a Posthuman Age, the idea being to update the goddesses and answer...
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A Blood Moon
The air is a velvet rope, coiled tight ’round my chest.
Breath unspools silver wire, threading ribs,
tugging my spine toward a fluorescent stage.
Copper lingers on...
