In the beginning
you gathered the wood...

We promised to
meet, a pact made...

We did not want to meet,
fierce migrants, wanting to fit in...

Beware of what you say ‘yes’ to
it is such a small word...

This poem existed
in the future...

Grace knows
Grace knows...

I have a few addictions
Italian food...

Homecoming isn’t
the same anymore...

There are gentle Spring days
when the air hushes...

They say you are gone
but I know you are only...

Sometimes inspiration
comes in a bolt...

Lacuna*
If you go into yourself...