poems

i am surprised to encounter solids.

words are whispered: like conspiracy.

i do not anthropomorphize. not even myself.

the grit from the wind is entirely fictitious.

if all is not well: we have a pill for that.

..........

a hungry choir: voices
from an empty room heard
through a closed door.

(a single spider murderous
on the hardwood floor)

i hear the sound of torture thick
as paint
on unwashed walls.

..........

my language is the wind heard
by solitary ears

my words are the night whispered
like conspiracy

this text trapped
in glass

.