From clocktower



A phantom comes carefully

Like an opera guest


My arias

Subsiding droplets glued to the window

Stagnant sit unseen on Plato’s Works


In crematoria of greenness

Thicker than Icelandic clouds

A bent, fire-powered man

Growls, yet haughty

Considers baldness, as if it were

A death sentence

So much so

A park outside becomes

Eden rather than Gethsemane


These cracks in earth

A half-finished golem

Or poem

Begging for incessant light

Though it is overtaken already

By the swiftness of creatures

Of his own palatable mind

Called, for contrast, perhaps