Poetry dances me,
with its incorrigible vice.
In the beauty of silence
naked jawbones crack
a fleshless shudder.
Torrid words smirk,
as they fall into your walnut air
in small pieces.
Particles, heavy of scent,
from my mouth
exploding further
into this silence –
silence is the page we write on –
dance with me.


woman in the wind.png

The wind came, inexorably
and swept me up, as she said,
tried to strip me bare,
remove my calluses perhaps
but most likely my skin –
the furniture of my metal.

We tussled. Her vexatious curses,
are lost, scattered around me.
Billowing, her breath is naught
but a whiney wail and she leaves
untouched; I am not unscathed
but I am silent.