This is as much about nothing.As it is about things that do not feature.This is about all the commas,pauses in speech and the halts in breatha poem ca..
This is a minute.A minute stolen from a day.A minute in which you embrace final things.The things that come after fables end.A minute that only keeps ..
Things appear from the past..An identity of distancebetween footprints and the body.It's geography and history is in tiny,sparse things.In its own fad..
I want to know the origin of wind.I want to know her face.If she has history and kins.I want to know her name.What did they call the wind when she was..
I cannot begin to write about lifeFor it is short.Summed up neatly in a few memoriesLike a bundle of old newspaperStored aside for occasional referenc..
What do I do with so muchpoetryand so many wordswhen all I have to say footnotes in silence.In the disheveled coliseum of language, vicinity is a rive..
I shall call it a parenthesisbecause life does extend beyond it,suddenly,in all directions.And inside there's just a dotted landscape, with somemoth-e..
I come from a place where languageshave widows.Their adjectives are unclothed, unpronouncedand executed openly in foster care ofsoft-drink republics.I..