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rather not
low over june’s dusk grass
the fireflies’ sparse steeps
all float away in one direction
in the gentlest of arcs
then as my ramble loops back
so the grazing...
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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...
