Poetry

Some days, love is cutting open your thoracic cavity and making that big old machine stop beating or praying death

Love is the most common thing Right next to seasonal flu Allergy and worn out shoes, loud horns and rusted

A Black Balloon The world turned over— an unverifiable hypothesis. I kept burning the pages of self-explanatory mistakes that seized

I think humans are meant to be warm, through settling fog dreads And crisp stalks lone in dewdrop rain. Cradled