Category: Poetry

If you are
laid low
by brute facts
split on Apex and Flame

Hop-skipping through reptilian roots
your helicopter tail brushes gathered mizzle
from drooping ferns.

This wind-tunnel world
waters the eyes
whilst deep-time, wild sentinels
are tickled by ferns fingers,

When I landed
in the present
the grass was waist-high,
woven with yellow,

Come down,
Every ounce of you is filled with fire
See, through tears
Tattered hands receive you