Poetry

I urge like a red lacquered / fingernail tapping a car / window, rat-tat-tat-ing, exclaiming / over there! faster than words

presume you bite a tomato the same way a man chomps an apple

These poems are not art / They are burial instructions

Here is what I know: silence has a sound.

look how the wet seeks the sand

Picasso’s eyes no longer saw for themselves

The April day scorns your true beauty.

I wrap myself into an effigy, a portraiture of a phoenix

Small children sometimes understand truths better than adults do

'Wonder Engine' and 'Old Sons' by Jane Zwart