A fistfight just started on new stained steps. It’s a nasty one, the fight, blood on the buttons already but the morning is early and yet to be marred as these two raise voices and swing between curses now in the flower beds of my grandfather’s second built home, punching directive at who will grace…

The Oceans Geographic I. The charm of daylight savings time brushes him onto the porch before the coffee cools. The moon flirts with perfection filtered through night air tightening with cold harsh on his lungs, but the kind of cold that one might associate with preservation, like snow at the dump. His eyes remain closed…

(For my grandfather) In the Dry Land, rain fell sideways heavy and half-frozen upon tilted hats and upturned collars the way it always fell. Forlorn thunder, the steady brown dirt and grass of all seasons trembled in the warmest winter since you left for the city. I rode and rode the hills to watch the…

There was this girl and There was this poem, but I suppose the girl came first: came to me on Sunday evenings, late and heavy with lust and other things and I studied both, ran my fingers over their bodies, not at first but after a drink or two. Deep in that apartment the lights…