forgotten moistureforgotten freedom. a sort of free of the fleshcried on the banks of the Seine, not to be dramaticwept…
five years and someto the next month, faint dreams of vivid bloomscerus, queens, anyone or thing at this pointanywhere. still…
the flower from heaven flower of triumph beauty under the moon, they say. because they is another world before the…
a parched palette and,persistent thirst and,every cell feels insatiable— your health, you have your health.googled Agadez, Nigersomewherethe sands and throes…
the harvest must happen before the rainsotherwise the pods will moldthe stiffness in my lower back, elbowscontinuously nourishing another, the…
we put our faith in a few packetswho knows how they were saved, whose hands touched eachit was welcome distraction…
it’s not a kind of preparedness any of us prepared for — hindsight in slow waves but a tumultuous…
“In fact, it comes to this: nobody is capable of really thinking about anyone, even in the worst calamity. For…
despite the flurry late capitalist chaos, and quarantine here, self-imposed a nearly ten month old. near springtime again a backyard…
science and museums say, once a summer, if that but despite gripping, hurtful fatigue all is bountiful and much a-bloom
she arrived, it is spring a bouquet each day and night now, nearly summer and still we dream of monsoons
in anticipation of Nora’s arrival hours spent pacing, laying tears, and dream of monsoons and of course the flower moon
