bewitched chaos

the first words uttered / from that silence / the silence where love emerges / sung by a ghost

Smoke above / the field of broken feathers, / I'm flightless, slipping windward / without a bridge to home.

I taste my own memories without the flavour of blood but as poetry.

I can't help but think about the dead. Everywhere their flowers burn bright.

I would like people to remember of me, how inexhaustible was her mindfulness.

He was here: curled on my now bony chest, howling wet being I pulled from my open wound.

The dark before me, unfolded from bead-pressed earth, sparkles, groans, whistles / I breathe it in.

I am an archaeologist sifting the grit of my muddled blood.

Though my soul may set in darkness, it will rise in perfect light; I have loved the stars too fondly to be fearful of the night.

The past is never where you think you left it.