Poems

Asterisks for the Intact

in you
everything
is unattested

a beginning

albeit a number of real
and imaginary lines
in the cartography

under the first layer
of my epidermis

 

 

Sick in Bed

Ogres tiptoe across
the red quicksand of my dreams
so as not to awaken their own visions.

What whims do they pursue?
Whose heart will they cut out and roast?

Night’s silence is so fragile
that any gesture could provoke
a serious affliction.

Another hour moves away
from my restless shadow.

 

 

The Nobel

Humus seeps up my toes,
a dark, dreamy exhaustion
for which I’ve just won
the Nobel in literature: Tales
of detritus ideals
and passions. Then you said
I was your minimal sadness,
that you search
for an even greater
sorrow. I walked away
with my prize.

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