A tide of blood, miniature in compare— But an ocean no less, to the virus in there.

Praise those who sit and wait for nothing. Who sit still and know they are owed nothing. On the mat each inhalation

I feel newly acquainted with this skin, everything is novel, intensity is wherever my eyes land,

The duration of a miracle is exactly one moment, after that you may as well be talking about what happened in the big game last night.

Trees poke from the earth like the mummified hands of the martyrs. Buried alive, they strained with last breath

A Sacred Site is the ultimate emblem, a trophy of the horizon’s finitude… No better a final gate, no more wiser a runway,

I once found in what appeared to be cistern carved within a boulder, an owl’s wing,

The cicada, once with the humility of a barnac… weeping beneath the fern, now screams its inane mantra, which

Ten days secluded now, improper and unshaven inside a black and gold hole, dope den of sultry sound and opiate mood.

To be a ghost is to always be aghast— To not know which direction is the future or the past.

Love is endless. Mercy, too. A great debt unpaid, sitting on my doorstep, first-class.

A Sacred Site, to my mind, is the last place you’ll ever stan… Such a place reveals hypocrisy without shaming,

You can get better, or you can get worse, or you can stay the same. But you can’t change. Nope!

Needless of a judge, a contrite heart is a bird suspended on a current, shifting myriad planes without asking or telling.