TW Featured Poet
...The inside of this wrist holds memories:/lips flushed against the palimpsest of my arm...
...The inside of this wrist holds memories:/lips flushed against the palimpsest of my arm...
our bodies twisting together,/a kind of thunderstorm blue
breathlight/we hang/empty cisterns/on ashen branches/feel the cold
Outside morning cats/wend their way home
Places become very far away—they reserve themselves to time. They are rescued.