Hollow
The station is crowded like a fishbowl, benches of stony coral and rotten planks sagging under human dialogue. The light is dead,..
Poetry
Addictions
The need I feel is not audible but it pounds its fists against my egg-shell skull, trying to break out in a spill of yellow goo. It pinches..
It’s Hard to be True to Words/ It’s Hard for Words to be True
Trick trick trickles of words snow into black seas, their undersides worn holey and white-..
