Category: Prose


What real death is that
if you can’t taste it twice?

Cut it harshly
just as if father yelled
on those rarer moments,
his bones arching legs.

she takes.

if shyness shamed
the oceans slaughting
a bag of bones, it lain a stentorian love
if shyness shamed
she recalls in deathly naught the beguile
of roses, adulterated by her fingers,
written in verses yet morose