They like to
say funny things
and to look at lovely things
and to feel, deeply, things.

“Now all the women after, are her lovers and will praise her with gifts. With their sacred rot, their bodies will mingle in the making of new soil.”

“Nearing thirty, we’re still children who see only metaphors. We’re pilgrims who follow the glow, our minds the candles burning in a tin box, all wax and flames.”

“What’s missing, what isn’t there, creates the poetry.”

when I breathe in I remember my mother too clearly and I lift the pencil
drawing attention to the line begins mark-making in this context

"We talk too many languages at home, one louder than the other. It's impossible to trap a jugnu in a jar"

I made everything beautiful
And it didn’t make a difference
You still cried in the morning

I want to go wherever
sense has gone. All words
are injury: sink, swim, kin.