Swan Song
to tears, I am tragically bored the spines creased, the birds alone in their forests whistle sweet little songs to warn the others: this is my spot, my tree, my world you’d better stay away.
Poems Written Before the Executioner
How I Write
I write with the tips of my fingers, extended through each digit from crackling knuckle, out from the wrist and down from the elbow, the shoulder, the neck and then the rotting brain, the brain, the mysterious box of rain that I can’t explain further.