You could find inconsistencies
on street corners like these,
plastered with potential headlines
and people doing their bests
at whatever they think they might
be best at – the people produce
the place around them, they name
everything and feel for everything,
even if what they feel is trifling
nonsenses or impassioned loyalties.

“Ash Names”

I sketched names in the ashes
of old words and older feelings,
tasting lives; how many had walked
streets like these, in days like these,
dancing in doorways to hide from rain,
or climbing over infinite mountains
in dreary seaside alleyways, when
they’d never dare to see the summit.
All ash, pre-built and pre-burnt,
with endings already written.


Your flowers follow up my skin,
unfurling petals and chlorophyll veins
running patterns across my scars.

Cut the ink out of me,
paint stems in my blood
lose loves in my margins
roll thorns down my wrists.

Bind and bleed me of words,
collect every sentence I spill:
set me to your name.

“Pick Apart”

these thoughts’ll drag along
the lost tomb of all I am
to drop beneath a silent glen
buried in your scripted name.

the names all swirl
pulling away at pieces
of a soul once known
now broken and unheeded.

they’ll pick me apart
flying it all away to drape
across your bed and throne
with battle-won processions.