Ontology I tell you about the woman on the bus, how she murmursa line by Dalí; a thing about shadows, her voicean old song, her face a folded photograph of the sea.how she sits in her garden entire impossible summers,a distance holding the sadness of horses, church bellswhere there is no church, in nettle-blistered hands.the… Continue reading Triin Paja
Blue Shirt you unbutton my blue shirt. your touchlike a heavy, red cloth, your touchis anemone, bitter tea. you lift your hands and all you seeis a silverware of clouds to hold the moon. you do not question the disappearance of your hands.your hands are murals. silver buttons. leaven. when night flowers into dawn, I… Continue reading Triin Paja
Tinnitus you say, the ragged curtains the house wearsare there to map absences; this calligraphy of decay is a kind of lightmolded of dust and tarmac. a light that aches to see. you say this in a voice that is an empty letteron a tin platter and I recall your language of Venetian floods, of thyme.how our… Continue reading Triin Paja
The Vale of Soul-Making 