GenuineSuede


Writing

Salvation

To the Vine clings a red rose

Alone, Together

though you hold my hand, I know

WHEN THE BOUGH BREAKS

I can feel the bough breaking, / caving under the weight, / snapping—one screaming fibre at a time.

April

I watch the giant crystal-feathers cascading, / frozen, milk-white wisps free-falling in slow motion / and groan.

After The Funeral

What I expected, I don’t know, / but something—more than this! / I do not question After-life, but Here; / while on this earth I am dismayed / to find . . .