Poems

Three rows of homes, with roofs removed from some of them.

My home

Home/Home? What? This place/where a wall can burst in,/a table fly and spin, glass/shatter faster than a flinch?

Shadow of a woman

My shadow

It doesn't cry when I do/It just sits and listens to the symphony I play, entitled melancholy.

A man holding his hands to his ears

I want to write

The Scream by Edvard Munch I want to write I want to write about you and I want to write about me what I was, what I...