There’s something about a man  when he’s not quite all of his sentient self. Like the one she sees before first coffee, his hair tousled.

The shadows come crawling, black-lipped and brine-soaked, like grief rolling in from the sea – our backs turned to the salt, the ache, the waterfront

She instructs me in the language of fruit. Rambutan -soft-spined, red-laced – a grape in disguise, she says. But a grape is already a grape,

It’s early December.A vicious wind rattles walls and windows,with enough venom left over to desecrate every human bodyfool enough to be out in it. I’m on her

The sky is dying flame. Let’s whisper its virtues on the porch. No sob stories, no regret Not with what we have accomplished. The willful

It’s all been said before. Nothing starts with you or I. The words are not mine. They’re not yours. We just borrow them for the

Tell Me What is Wrong Talk to me, Gena. I’m here to bring comfort but first I must know what I’m comforting. I’m giving you