Washed Away.

And I’d still love
As I’d lay here, not with strife
Not dead. But I breathe
And I’d know, not as a ghost,
But as a soul
Washed away.

As I Lay Before You.

I’ve laid before you, darkness all I’ve mapped, all alone,
Those little taps, and the enlightenment of voice from birth
Intrigue the remembrance of once I had,
And all I held, and all I’ve left and sought,
And loved, I’ve loved! The cruelty of son,
Told that the son branched take on this

As I’ve Forgotten Between the Wind.

Like soil with collective stems of a crooked rock
That brushed your fingers, all dampened,
That a mother would tell you to wash up,
Hurry on; but as I’ve remembered,
An olden, washed face, only ashen in lengths,
As I’ve forgotten time in between tonight,
And the best the day had hummed
The song of the copious endorphin springs

Must I Un-Wish?

The son of lands, and lands amazed,
That sheer a composition, in the fair hands,
Of Mendelssohn that grown from the stems,
And tendrils, furtive maelstrom in sound,
And bearing without a formal syntax


My dear! Enwrapped around,
Senses displayed—I had thought the reality,
The drought and rings of nymphs,
And I, and I so foolishly pestered,
Thatched by those dead, those pranced,
At the sight of the endless bloom,
And I have remained in my quiet room.

Open Eyes, World.

Holding the shadow of the child like her own,
And some shawl pulled back, soft as the plumes of an egret,
That will reveal all regret,
Your regret, and my own.

The Fall of Patois.

For that estuary wept, with its mouth tapering,
Tapering into wrinkled sheets and disturbing,
Disturbing the transgressions of sense (and sense display us)


Winter deceived once again, child, there is no snow,
That pokerish linen interlaces rocks and stardust;
May it bring the recherché in the form of an old voice, an old friend.