solitary dream.

A deep sleep in winter’s canyon turned away to the solitary dream— where it is systematic before a silence of grief; the canticle is seen through other eyes, not mine, and I don’t understand a word, whispers press unmourned in your eyes, the trace of winter hungry in different hungers despite the reverence of red… Read More solitary dream.


the shadows             cover the sands, each finger             in my hand threads liana             coast blue the bodies of ephemeral god’s eye; my father holds my hand             by the rope of the bridge; it, in a sense, is remote to me as a child; in memory, it architects a mist in mind, orange… Read More Bridge.

our ghosts.

our ghosts accompany loneliness… mirrors of distant memory      find to the dusk like at sea      a memento in a dream      that eludes me and floats…      Orange blossoms into Ophelia’s violets and the granitic rocks      rush to the red dust for how quietly time has passed  through the statuary of rock… Read More our ghosts.


tyranny  blinded by the ghost of an isthmus, dark eyes fed upon your laugh like a poison  to surge, the chill  when you look at me; the dust of the horizon shapes cruelty. Reaped in the quiet like a violent beast as solitude precedes covering the ashes blistering on the pale shore this void of… Read More Tyranny.


Of the April wind                         the distant perdu                         world, persists with                                     the evening sea shore conducts in sleep             the phase of light.                         There is no sun. There are no wings                                     in the abyss                                                 with black fruit,                                                             beautified in the sacrificial                                                             breath. Fall, fall.                                                 Amnesiac in the… Read More Amnesiac.


Keep your dead lilies, Two reared seeds. And the crisp red triste Of a cherry blossom Grows by the peas, Of the blue afterglow On the sameness of his laugh. As red wallops stifled cicada wood, The epistle chokes in the water; it’s been awhile. Scurf of a half Frost; marked their caged, primped words… Read More Half-Frost.


An ale river Between the mountains Reels by holy mist. Dead in the Eden, The land, the land, Screaming on the Aragon valley, “Beyond fragile lips Of a bleeding, tormented river, It is lost as the seashore, And is caressed by mothering wind, In the crimson river, confined by silence Which salutes the pre-winter to… Read More Firewood.