poems i wrote while waiting to make portraits on center street

kindness hasn't known
the sun. or it it the sun
that hasn't known kindness.

what is kindness to the sun
what is kindness to the rise of it.

i've known kindness
but i am not the sun

i can say the sun
has been kind to me
but can i to it


can i to it
can i become i-




when time roams past

itself into a swirl


i am left reeling

in three fish

on one line. when

when becomes when


i start to realize the sun

is counting nothing

while i count on it.


when i first became

aware of death

i started to count


mathematics were

the first language

of death

and immortality


these words will be

my last.




as the night announces itself

with strength.


i became tempted to sleep

into it, rest into it

the reverse birth.




sleep is an infancy

i am able to recover





the thing about wombing:

i didn't know the outdoors

until i left —

never going back.




i'm falling with the moon


i've read the snow and

it's not going to stay for long


my mouth is never going back



once, and only once

, i apologized for the wind:

forgive me for its strength.




it concerns me to think

a small

number of plants

grow indoors.




why did the sky tell me, say,

your mother is never coming

back, never coming back

to enshroud you.


back, never coming back

to contain you.


back, never coming back

to grow you.




my father woke me

up early one morning


"son, at an nondescript moment

in your life, your body

will stop growing."


i blinked to wake up

but when i was so young

i found it difficult.




you cannot get








is comforting.





humans are such

a specific size


we will never

be planets.




enjoying the evening

a shoe on the windowsill

above me




the polish of the sky

when the night moon shows

me the mist i had

only felt til' now




may the lord

claim his own things

so i understand

his name




i am not



just fading

she said in her sleep.

goodnight, my love.




if i must die

and i must

let it be by the wind

in your hair

let it be me


give me the wind 

in your hair




hunger has driven me

to ugly things




i confess hunger

i confess a desire to live

at least like the birds

          a branch

          a bit of bread

          a song in my heart, and ample space to sound it

that is my confession




under certain circumstances

i have killed

under certain circumstances

i have not been sorry for this

i have claimed it

and then when i went

home i asked no one

for forgiveness. under

certain circumstances

i have killed myself

before i did, i hoped

it would be an apology

"i'm sorry for living.

i promise to never come back."




amongst all the oysters

one asked

is it vain

if we all want it together

for ourselves




the bicycle will never wake-up.

it will never see

itself in the mirror and wash its face

nor will it sigh in the morning,

wish for something more

mow or own a lawn.

we have not known

bicycles to care

about the color of the sky

to rub its adam's apple

worry about dying, pray.