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your hand swells my neck, pretty, you say
i am, no matter how decimal-small. 
my eyelash flutters across your shoulder.
gravity. you land on my chest skin—

In photojournalism, there are two kinds of pictures. One delivers the news with shocking precision: The image of a drowned Syrian child washed up on a beach in Turkey; the spectacular, eerie stillness of a protester about to be arrested in...

say i was a careless shutting
of language an accident
sound whirling into the guttur

I am an architectural marvel, a gleaming façade, a mirror in the middle of an urban wasteland. And yet, I am invisible. You might think—

The outsized grandeur of the boreal can still appear so wild, so endless, it’s hard for newcomers to recognize the loss. Each generation’s perception of normal is molded by the environment they encounter, masking the gradual fade, a...

As a child I often woke up next to her in her bed, somehow teleported there during the night. I’d lie very still and watch car-light shadows rove from wall to ceiling to wall. She snored with grinding constancy, as if some terrible snarl...

It was late June, the solstice. 
The day took hours to end. You look like me,
my father said quietly.

The dead leaves that won’t admit they’re dead 
are called marcescent