VQR Online

not a voice—a trajectory 
                                       of wings

Back then, I spent my hours at church studying the trails of His varnished blood and the seepage of His emaciated gut. The crucifix hung high above the celebrant’s chair, and the ribs looked so sharp they could cut. 

Is programming not a kind of poetry?
Ones and zeros of the heart.

The King’s Cross streets are loaded, Thursday night miniskirts and Chelsea boots, pastel Hackett polo shirts and Stone Island wear, people coughing the odd virus or two in my direction. 

Not long after Stewart vowed to delete Grindr and Jack’d and every other dating app he’d ever downloaded, Anders Nyberg emailed to say he’d moved back to Maine and would be coming down to New York for three days.

Who knows how many of us 
                                                  you’ve killed, dead set 
on what flows beneath, your mouth

My boyfriend doesn’t really drink but he loves bars. He likes talking to strangers (he’s a sales executive) and he likes talking to strangers at bars; I hate talking to strangers but I like listening, and I like listening to him do it, how...

At thirty, I am a child again learning
banana, apple, and orange,
clasping words and fumbling my meanings.

The pilot and I stayed at a cheap, extended-stay lodge by the small-craft airport during the first six months we were together. I was really young. Twenty-two. About to turn twenty-three, but I was just twenty-two.