It’s been low tide
for a while, the beach
parched. Seagulls search
for salvation from starvation

As with all creatures the flow of my veins carries a measure of tears in the flat hand of night but in this light the daybreak wears the skin of my dreams and holds me, not without her own sadness

Cold in December, dry up, but flared up with the fire of love, dancing bud catches the rain and knows that there is no death. It melts with moisture on the tongue and the gums are his bed. Probably there is no beach, probably there is only one blizzard in my head.

My mother throws the casserole in the oven after adding expiring ingredients and vegetables to the beat of raucous drums playing in the background. When the casserole finishes cooking, we all grab plates and serve ourselves. Sitting in the living room with the television playing a crude adult animated series, we eat.

“I Am Composing a Song”
”Incompatible”
”That Ancient Village”