Pots
brewing on the burners of these corroded...

The loneliest tree
in the citrus garden is...

Beside these forlorn shades,
there are no realities to my existence...

It is so startling
how precise...

The blankness of canvases and silence of papers
pouring over horizons...

Their gifting spirits
live on in their absence...

Waltzing
we poured...

The dissemination of bullets seeded the womb of...
the land’s arms opened...

In the metamorphosis of formation
shapes ache to attend to their final cause...

I am happening
as I look at my watch...

Space is as the result of our disunion
the scatter of our holy communion...

Lets conspire with this pavement
against our distances...