“Poetry is language at its most distilled and most powerful.” —Rita Dove
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.
a folksome, gruesome opera
of gauze and malcontent.
Her brown eyes,
how a fig
the strands of your hair on the bathroom tiles aren’t sketching defeat. that’s you spitting disease in the face with another day you’ve woken up to.
Try not to see your own predicament in every fucking thing.
of ethical standards
soft porn, as gentle prodding and petting parent
to parent might calm and soothe the kid.
my friends’ fathers are
I mean dying
Long after midnight, we’re talking about our first time