Like all the whites and pinks tailing
your heir...

We might be just a dot, a stratum,
buried in the layout of ladybug wings...

To explore the possibilities of words
is not the poet’s due...

Even though blindfolded to that
it is only ourselves...

Eyes, eyes, eyes,
I just see your eyes...

Death is what my hands are searching in my...
Death is a floating object...

Don't leave her.
Separation is not freedom...

Why
when we grow fangs...

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...