Category: Poetry

If I stop speaking you,/
you will be like language that’s lost/
when other words are chosen/
for popularity or ease of use,/

My wish for you is to lose/
what is of value./
Quickly./
So that you’ll have no time for struggle/
the way you’ll have time for regret./

Your stories died with you./
So now I can no longer ask/
how sweet the nectar is/
when sucked from the stems/
of santan./

I am jealous of objects, not people, such as the fork that enters yourmouth. It draws light ridges on your lips while the cream of

One day I want you to tell me/
about love, and not the kind/
that would be called sensible./

Onlookers always share thoughts/
from the comfort of their seats/
where they are spared/
the sweat and spit/
from the bloody match below./