Junk email reads...

I come bearing fruit from the northern isles—you...
and wonder which flesh is sweeter, more tender...

In a language of lament and mourning—poetry...
verses like ’stranded among the living/called...

time stains my hands like turmeric—i...
of it, like ridding it would absolve me of me my...

of light, of love—twined together by the...
of time, there is little to be said, little to be...

Sorrow espaliered across the width of my...
manages to cast light on it. I suppose that...

The body is a river of grief, and at its mouth—a...
you learn quickly that speaking about the wounds...

April, a month of hunger and renewal, licks my...
with its warmth, drooling rain & snow over me...

Home insisted on grief—an overabundance of never...
consisting of too little, reduced to living in...

“Blood marbles the sky”, you say quietly...
I peek at the evening sky, a dramatic red...

My day starts at 5 am, an hour before your alarm...
stirring you from whatever soft dreamland you...

I become a profligate writer in all matters of...
I'm compelled to start a religion, write all the...