“I dreamt of a graveyard / being forested over with / saplings growing more underground / than above the crowd of // tombstones the tempestuous breath / of silence knocked…”

“‘Neither opened nor closed, / can’t be figured out or pinned down, / I’m not an equation or a specimen, / I’m a book you can only read…”

“In the making of love / something is always destroyed, // if not simply misplaced, / compounding the misery in which / no one takes any interest, / cold-hearted fists…”

“A writer plotting against my Self, / a lover fighting nothing / other than the troubling, / trembling desire of wanting / to be someone else’s / other, tired of…”

“A ringing in the ears accompanies, like a / shadow’s pall does a waiting grave, rebels wed / to the danger of calling on angels without / first…”