the sorrow I have specified follows the line of the hair across my belly of the color of my eyes and it’s unclear what they should be and I pull the hairs from my scalp like bad dreams out of me until the roof of my mouth aches, until I miss the sea I want […]

Draft 1

I’m in the market for a typewriter made of balsa wood and bone it should be more fragile than the fingers that use it and it should creak under the weight of my words the blueness of the metal is disconcerting and the harshness of its touch is not my taste it’s too cold it’s […]


the marrowstone came up to bite at my limbs – unyielding clay, soil bleeding like veins as we stepped the liquid seeped out beneath our bare feet and it was colder than the wind, sweeter than the sea and now my hands are empty my bones are as cold as this marrow – inorganic