AC vent


Flickers your candle
I believe in saints
Some nights
They murmur
Don’t cut your hair
Clip your wings instead
The only thing that really counts
Are these goosebumps
This poetry, the number 33
You’re a pink monk
With a handful of raisins
Exquisite, the way you glide

Sixty seven

Hair strands


His wheelchair in my garage

Can you believe it’s still attached

Where his back once rested

Plotting my hands to pull

Each and every single one

Particles of him, my mouth hurts

The ability to separate reality

From want – is merely fantasized

I love you I do but don’t take me

Not yet, not yet, save me instead

Dad . .