I was invited to a painting class. I confessed I...
Those inflamed lights...

I was invited to a painting class. I confessed I...
The lady with a red umbrella...

We teach presence
to fear the bewilderment of after...

Sometimes…
poetry bursts...

Throw your Bibles away.
Throw your Qur’ans away...

In the dolls’ realm,
everything happens...

Why does this wound
never close, never heal...

To protect their heaven,
they have forged hell within their hearts...

I am Poetry,
the first wound of silence...

The contact point of continuance is simple: I have...
I have carved a void to whirl inside. It is a...

The mare of sorrow,
she drinks from the well...

Butterflies, butterflies
here and there...