with sardonic air, we bloom tulips and roses
on our tongues, perfuming every word to...

the cries of the lark do me in,
carrying with it – the eastern winds...

Honeyed words pour out in a continuous
stream onto your collar bones, the horizon...

…
and we tire of the echoes of exhaustion...

the uninvited guest barges in and sits
at the dining table, offering slivers of...

the impossibly soft hours of dawn
patinas into weightlessness...

with soft yearning, i shall write of you tonight.
the skies simmering away the stars might have...

hand-picked wildflowers stamped into the letters
you’d rattle off, were easily one of my...

and yet, it manages to swell again;
the sadness is lamenting again...

you spill light into the evening sun;
lending warmth to an otherwise...

peered into the belly of the beast
that toils for pageantry, theatre...

i was not taught to be gentle;
the whirling winds outside...