Any still figure at mid-late evening, when the long shadows make even crumbs appear arranged like furniture.
You let the yellow glow from eye sockets. The building up the street is burning faster and faster.
and apples, mackintosh mostly, but any kind left in The Pub at the Assisted Living Place
The collective failure of ethical standards
this is what I want you to to see: leaves falling because it is too late for them not to
I imagined a cascade of slow death for all / that mattered…
Even as the sun warms the concrete the long nights’ sensual cold lingers in my clothes.
He has stories that I am not in anymore. It’s healed this way.
Her brown eyes, how a fig considers itself.
I myself should never have been born
Millions of Americans have been affected by identity theft. It’s probably the greenhouse gases.
There is so little left of the tomato plants.
You said it was okay to blame what goes wrong on the planet
four-thirty a.m.
Gravel-scatted hell & we were blessed to be able to hold on for even a heartbeat
Winter sat like a wolf on the horizon.
Okay, picture this: We’re in an elevator. The elevator shuts down. It doesn’t matter where we’re going, only that we’re alone.
how does an afternoon turn on its axis?
I would always rather be happy than dignified. Rather held than held in awe.
Dylan Krieger’s poetry is unflinching, grotesque, and beautiful. Her work tackles trauma, wrestles authority, and is a decadent sonic feast.