dusty séances on the

bedroom floor

crayons and candles

let me

ride on the back

I’m so cold I’m so warm


reaching expert level self-sabotage

I was happy, happy

with my fingers like tendrils of

summer vegetables wrapping around

your sternum popping at the core

of all the stairwells I remember


had the most stray letters

on the windowsill and

the door was marked with a name

long departed

the day was

breaking, breaking

gray and orange while I lay

still and felt nothing

apple core

fast on the bus as far as we can go.

everything is green

and wet

with little snails on your eyelashes,


and tongue.

tastes like the day I drove

with the windows down

not knowing a year would bring

dirty skies

and glasses left on the bedside table.

but now the mattress is on the floor

and made of volcanic rock,

always shifting.

it was afternoon, and I

saw your thighs bleeding in the living room,

closed the door,

and turned my car the wrong direction

down a one-way street.

last train



walks holding

hands shaking


under tents of dark it’s ok


don’t know anyone here



stretching out to places we wish we were


of other worlds where

we are not what we are

but until then—-stay

while the last train leaves


above our heads

barreling on

to fields of stars

walking home

alone now I’m

thinking of things bursting apart