What are you going to do —
now that I stare at you,
listening into the silence, howling
the absence of noise?
What are you going to do —
now that my heart and all the ounce
of reason that embraces it, drops
into the cold tile floor?
What are you going to do —
now when the distance that separates
my feet to your feet is a
giant stretch of air, and people,
and books and rubble and
impossibility
and dying chances?

Lidless wreath
Blind me with your teeth
Bone white, chalk lines; bitter retreat

I’ll sing through the embers
Of our charred reverie
A brick & mortar apartment
Holding three dead children
We flee.

Their ghostly limbs around me
Your voice in a hum
You linger in a grey house writing poetry
You mark my lips with self-doubt