“An ars poetica, is of course, articulating one’s raison-d’être for being a poet” Ocean Vuong It is impossible to hold all of myself – my
together we were yellow-happy lucky number sevens and you kept me warm, saying, i’m with you we were white-hot like the aftermath of lightning imprint
Give me a clean box To put my love in/ /I will We will be vivid and liquid When we are alone And lit from
I wrote to a friend about falling in love: I told her the things that changed most were the windows, how looking outside became radical,
Once I moved closer to the ocean I finally wrenched my body out from under the circular core of the earth. I was covered in
When the dog lost its molarThe transformation beganTwo novel appendagesForming atop my foreheadDawn, skin breaking A skull dilapidatedSpiritual shreddingCurved teeth emit shrieksSatinification takes certainTime, focus,
It’s the kind of stillness where you forget to breathe. Forget the rain. Only when I break puddles into fragments, cracking them loose like glass,
when we awoke sunday morning, dark water had turned sparkling cradled by shore. eight of us sprawled in sand and sunlight sweat trickling down backs
They called in broken sentences with urgent tones. His breaths were not his own, and his body stiff, fastened to the hospital bed. The breathing
It’s a dewy Tuesday morning and you wake with the sun. The air smells like the camping trip you went on, the year you sprained
I’m feeling unexpectedly sad here at Carl Schurz Park. We’re sitting on benches in front of the railing. The water’s fins are poking up and
raindrops peel themselves from the bottom of your boots then launch through the air and back onto your ankles, notice the way cigarettes fit so
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