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The Horologist
His fingers—spindly, delicate as a spider’s legs—
dart among the gears,
tools clink in whispers, sharp and sure.
He bends close, breath fogging the polished brass,
eyes fixed...
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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...
