I.

three days dead.
I am his tomb,
despaired his only friend.
he is buried inside me.

II.

now the formless thing is named.
the thing that lurks quietly
like a reflex, or a dormant virus
that cannot be evicted.

III.

how does one enter a burning house
if not for reincarnation?
everyone seeks the moment where
you become fire itself

IV.

I ache not for our paper tiger past
all those days spent trying to paint
that beast in the jungle
to resemble the trees

V.

are we disposable?
are we all single-use
grocery shelf items
wrapped in colorful skins?

VI.

what is easily obtained is easily lost
what has value in a life made of wind
where each fleeting moment is eroded bare?
only nomadic hearts survive

VII.

the shadow rides in
on a nightmare's smoldering hooves
it draws a long curtain over the dead
and what cannot be reclaimed

VIII.

I'm hitting every branch
on the way down,
bruising my belly
on the promise of fruit

IX.

when the lonely sea is flecked
by islands seven years apart,
yet only seven months buoyant,
do you stop swimming?

X.

why must fishermen drown
to save their rippling dreams?
time as a river erodes memory uncollected
and swallows whole those submerged

XI.

we are the brilliant undead
we who have endured doom unending,
yet can still see the sun
from six feet underground

XII.

wound and gore me always
keep my heart's raw flesh
torn and tender in wide open welcome
for the goodness to come

XIII.

during my earliest fever dream
a light of terrible substance visited me
it spake: fear not, I live in you
I fear the things that save me

XIV.

in this new genre of horror
there is no blood or catastrophe
it is a neglected ulcer, necrotic and
rotting in gentle, wakeful silence

XV.

I keep
throwing myself against the rocks
hoping my bones will break
and heal into new shapes

XVI.

life is my abusive lover
that I won't leave
however much I threaten.
I love the way it whispers hope to me