History is a door many/ many have walked through.
police sirens/sing the same name/as last night
It’s a human candle that will burn/the spice and backstory of her laughter
This isn’t how anything works.
This is not a parable.
I can still see the white egrets somewhere
i still believe in poems in spite of them
do you see me disassembled?
Tell your child how you, too, wanted to become weightless, but chose, instead, to marry and have children.
this doesn’t feel like life yet.