short poem

our world is a weak place
of towers and ruin,
tears, taste.
a sun comes up
in an old man's face,
happy to hurt
when the stars race.
turn of grace,
these letters
returned,
the same place,
without cataclysm, nor trace.


shorter poem

my dress caught fire
a thousand polka dots
up in flames
my hair
mud
my feet
trodden whimpers
in the unbaked clod.

don't feel so good.