zinc words & images

  • April at Night

    Tonight the windows ripple with lightening.   Each shot from the sky breaks me open like bread.   With rain, instrumentation, an arrangement,   layers that drop into place, roil my body,   subside and return louder, more insistent.   Water wants its place beside the night’s bright fire.    

  • Thankful wash

    We spill our bodies, breathless, into the beat Of the ocean. Choral salt. Land tapers. You can only regret what your hands Haven’t touched. But now that’s not true. Birds fly, a long stroke over the white line, Receding and returning. My hand cuts the water, But really I’m reaching for the world, Its birth.…

  • End is nigh

    Wash me in ash culled from the river, The place where the burned trees gather. Hunt for the sun as it sets a bloody curtain Over the horizon. Grasp me fiercely As if I am careening toward the world’s Gaping maw. Make believe that tomorrow exists.

  • Lookout Points

    We have tall trees. The sort that seems to have raised themselves From a story,  rather than a seed. From the north they look Like spindly teeth ready to eat The sky. Along their roots, We mapped the spine of our land, Coming to conclude that Moss is a language rather than A cartographer’s mark.…

  • Physical impassibility

    What bones are these? Typing, hanging between gravity’s decisions. Metaphors hardly capture the way my capillaries dance, imprecisely reasoning whether one can see both sides of a coin. Philosophically, a coin only has one side, the side that is visible. My body and its cells, want the solution to be existence on all plains, though,…

  • Where We Went

    Unwrap your teenage heart Like a chocolate dream. I miss the self that sings, the one that wraps string around her finger and waves. Lightening steps and electric belief was what we wanted and could never get. Not enough to satisfy. Rather, we became maudlin. Watched rises, stretches, untouched heartache, unmounted tenderness and lamented the…

  • Poem Up at High Shelf Press

    My poem, A Night’s Movement, is up at High Shelf Press. Find me alongside some really amazing artists and writers here.

  • Crows Have the Longest Memories

    Crows are black. The dusk envelopes and I feel feathers pass my head. You are leaving and through the window, I watch wingbeats above your car. Heavenly ripple, at night, the crows wait for your absence. When they call to me, I hear the geometry of space, a sky of four corners. I believe they…

  • Cracking

    Feeble mauve against the sky. Are we carrion, blistered and bleached? Craters ablast shale flayed from mountains and piled against the moon’s reflection. We were not here among the sheaves of paper, the mounded dirt. I think this, the wretched beginning, was when I could see sand, a mote impaling the air. Dissipation, chemical disposal…

  • Untitled

    Salt, When the tide comes in. My eyes are clear And the grains of sand are mirrors Reflecting one another For miles. Beyond the horizon I know nothing waits And only becomes. Piers Stand crumbling, Tickmarks that circle the shore. I can count the number of times I’ve been here. My hands, my words, Adding…