my love is a glass shard, a knife made of madness and moonlight, and there are already way too many fragments in this house
I count my homes— those of my scattered youth the sanctuary of our young family the intermittent rest stops of apartments and vacations.
I’msorry I‘ll see what happens iLife
I imagine that undressing a color, though, would be so much like peeling a memory away from the grey and the white matter of your brain.
Should have found a job by now; should have slept in the night; should have boiled old coffee before noon.
Yes I am guilty, I’m guilty. A sin was desirable then. Bring the dancer back to the stalks.
a folksome, gruesome opera of gauze and malcontent.
The collective failure of ethical standards
love is a soggy tea stain on a grocery receipt
you know that baby swallows make silver ripples in wild rivers to court reeds?
it’s touch-and-go with me and weddings
I like to think I’m also sprung, released from the furnace knocks, done with the heavy meat stews and salty soups.
Gravel-scatted hell & we were blessed to be able to hold on for even a heartbeat
I would always rather be happy than dignified. Rather held than held in awe.
Her brown eyes, how a fig considers itself.
Dylan Krieger’s poetry is unflinching, grotesque, and beautiful. Her work tackles trauma, wrestles authority, and is a decadent sonic feast.
I suffer visions and many indignities while looking for the Lobster
four-thirty a.m.
The two of us toast to a man we both love, to whatever degree, clink our glasses and laugh…
Listen to me: I know the winter gloom in mid-summer…