Category: poetry

Only the middle ground of this wicked world mattered, the vast gap that stretched between, and those who were born with enough grit to brave it.

We are survivors of death.

Never lived.

Bruce watched her nose
sniff at the side of the friend’s head,
her tongue like a worm, searching
for a way in.

Her quiet hands, filling up boxes,
inviting all the silence to finally leave the room.

In the mirror I see only the time-lapsed weather patterns of 1964.

We interrupt this program for breaking news:

Has anyone seen this nobody?

But when I turn up the volume on the TV
no laugh track is playing.

It’s that drunk bitch in the Thirty-second Street bar.

It stayed like that: a rosy ring of jailed blood that came to the barred window
and never left.