Poems from sleepless nights
sometimes I grow tired of the puppet ghostsI keep glued to the tips of my fingers, bored ofthe way they groan and nip tiny forests of...
I
the yarn, atlantic-tinged blue
and sword-hilt gold
was born from her
crepe-plastered skin, trailing from
her fingernails like ...
you don’t ever notice her, but she’s there,
the smiling woman with her home in the
corner of the screen,
spilling a foreign tongue from her...