“Speaking of conspiracies, truly, / the only fringe theory / in which I don’t believe is that / myth I might possibly be loved, / that somehow one can…”

“Not sure what side of the screen / we’re on, if the glass deceives us / or them, if they can see what / we do between this…”

“Perhaps I’ve been afraid of being / burned away by love’s untamed flame, its / pain staining black the core of a red / fruit, a sting draining…”

“Fossils fuelled by denial’s sighing torch, / a gospel of bones disturbs the broken / earth, breaking open the way a swollen / boil bursts, its burial mound…”

“Peel from their painted paper globes / the broken husks of pulp wrapping / up the lantern-shaded gasps of // your eyes, a brusque crop-failing dusk / dusting over…”