your fingertips bristle,
pin-pricked with potential,
grasping at the train
of a thought flowing past,
till you’re left half-remembering
a name and a face you’d rather not.


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.