It’s Late.
excerpt from three poems published in Atmospheric Quarterly
March 2024
There’s a square around the moon and the air smells like Christmas 1998—the aching of something dreaming into the sky. Reverberations emitting nothing but spaceships and late season chamomile bowing to cones; soft surrenders to gently lifting veils. Familiar episodes swallowed by the pulse of someone somewhere digging too deep into the night. Stars shifting shape to human craft, and nothing here is settled. Almost as if intentionally calling me back, reeling into the dream; the parallel unholy universes overlapping like cellophane. One final lily braving the frost, signaling tonight tonight, nothing’s as it seems.
