You tore a hole in my heart
and promised to fill it over 15 years.
But black light came early
and here I lay bleeding.
You come now in dreams,
in the corner of my near eye
I see you.
But we don’t talk
the way we used to do.
I can’t pick you up, warm and soft
and carousel the room for you.
I watch the stillness of a pile of toys
and the whisp of warmth
in the linen curtains
where you used to sleep.
Think of all the days since
that I haven’t kissed your head.

Hades Iscariot

and a poem, from these empty hands.
Charon guide me and protect me
across Cthulhu Regio to the fractured
planes of Sputnik Planum.
The blackened, vacant dunes hiss nitrogen
you are not here, you were never here.
The lapping waves that broke on the bow of our ship
are silent. Ever silent.


We list sideways in the open boat,
dreams, like scabs descend upon open wounds.
Wicker is the sound it makes when you stand up,
when you’re told to sit back down. Without
a shirt, you’re sucking drops of moisture from
a rag.
When the cage is upon you, when the ground
is melting into a rocking pool,
when tall blades of wild grass make your shins
seep thin laces of blood.
The moon is not an afterthought, then.
And you’re still feral, running naked,
and listing.


Listen to a recording of this poem here:

Slop the hog

A propeller’s hope of binded light
Like a whisper between nuns,
murmuration of the swallows,
a collection of vespers
walks out of the room.
There’s no candy on the shelves anymore
and the bins full of tangy metallic screws
are just enough to wet the tongue.
I’m lapsing now, just like the last time,
one last lilt and then.
And then you’re absolutely full of the bulk,
a spool of heavy chain, a slaughtered pig,