Love leaves me whole, / a pockmarked moon. / Pared wounds knitted together / by chewing ants, each / champing tiny jaws over my flesh.

In a bathtub / rimmed in lime / basil salts, I take / a spoon

I used to sew / along the edge of my body / – to interrupt / the Mare unraveling / my stitched skin.

There are two elements: / The voice and the wilderness of / Ocean — both thoroughly defined / though one, more wholly —

there is a sun behind you as hollow as the sound from / within your claims to the land it sets on kranti weeps not within

I am tremendous fun at dinner parties / I say this as a joke but it’s true, I talk / and hardly pause for breath, a ticking metronome / of story punchline setup story and only rest a moment

When they decided to kill the priest it was winter / and they wanted it slow. They led him out barefoot / to a steaming pot, and had us each take turns / dipping an enormous ladle, black from other hands.

i sometimes think that everything that has ever happened to me / is raining somewhere else. i sometimes think that the water has found / a path through high trees, worked its way inside another room, so the damp / next door is spreading, curving an unknown ceiling into a misshapen moon.

-Savage! / You read my poems and tore the pages. / -… / Mute / Ir-rational / a Chinese poem played on the speakers. / Black dirty pots on the hob.