Slow burn

Dancing on my grave

Poems in a pandemic

She said,feels weird to poemin these times.it took me a while to replytill these words floated in my headpoems are windows to the worldSo i poem-ed for herpoems are ducts of sunlightamidst the dampness of fearpressure valves that force oxygenthrough closed doors & clamped chestsoxy-poems be like oxy-metersprescribe & provide at leisureThey are pockets of

The Spider poem.

a poem about writing and its dilemmas.

Of anonymous bow-bows and meow-meows

What is keeping us here?

Forgotten arts

Paint. Even as the world burns, paint.

Living the question

i am living the question now

Shells are us

Elements shape us.

Window to the sun

Rise, you beauty!

Home for you

Keeping home for that someone