A few poems

Yeah, still digging through life, you guys.

Going back back back through the archives of old websites to find old poetry. Thought I’d post a few here––ones that won’t be getting a rewrite/revision/repurpose. These aren’t my best by any means, but there are a few lines in both that leave me with that feeling poetry is supposed to leave one with. Ones that I am proud of.


She always kept fruit

in her coat pocket.

She liked the texture

on her fingers in

the cold and how when

she put it to her

lips it was like child-

hood on her tongue or

running a hot bath.

The smell would linger

until it simply

broke away, like smoke

leaving a body,

hidden in the faint

subtraction of sun.

This was the apex

of her distinctness.

Sitting, pink as an

orphan, in loyal

dark; standing out like

a frozen feather

in the muscular



Encased and alkali

If we were to pretend that

the sky is nothing but

heavy cream – whipped fiercely

by the hand of some finicky god,

it might help. Help destroy

the feeling of skin so ashen

not even our blood knows red.

The pigment of our eyes—

faded gradient with every

upward glance, making color

difficult to remember.

We close eyelids and force our

diminishing senses to conjure

a soft pink spring; a sizzling

summer. Lime-green buds

breaking way through the

arms of branches; a beautiful

welcomed blistering. But all

we see is a thick layer

of dark ice so sinister, it nearly

tells you it has a name:

Adversary, Dastard, Furies.

A vein not even salt can open.

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