There are no bite marks on his apple.
His toys are still in their boxes...

A poem is the
iteration of every...

How wearing the patience of vultures is
in the desert of people's eyes...

Like waves
that retreat and climb...

Why don’t you embrace me as me,
as who I am...

These weapons are made
with bad intents otherwise...

Was it always this way,
or just my oblivion was the sleigh...

I love and you leave
and then I leave, and you love...

First you were just an itching indentation
and I was a swollen pain...

Everything is so awful
and bad...

Silver bullet kills
the wolf in us, silver moon...

Are the trees just acting out their loneliness,
their separation from the fire...