The reason I couldn't write a love poem was because I didn't know how.

Thea Yahaya’s first thought when she walked into the Hound & Co. office was that there were too many smiles on the walls.

I got to know my ghosts, they were apologetic and proud.

In his confinement, the caged man sat at his desk, coupled with crumpled papers and ink, for he is a writer, and he writes of the things he sees through his shrouded window that sits across the vast ocean.

A little birdy once told me That they were paid to live in that cage

In the jailhouse of a small town in New Mexico, a rugged man named Porter sits in his cell with his eyes locked on the ground. He focuses on his breathing, inhaling with difficulty through his clogged nose and exhaling out his mouth.

I crossed the point of no return, years ago presently, I am not sure where this path leads I do know that I can’t turn back

I remember your big gray bike with the breaks at the hands. I took it once, and walked it up Victoria Point.

Still I will write, if only to pity the fool who scorns the Olympiad for taking the dive into the dozen meters of water below for playing in puddles, while they toy with the water’s surface from the coping with the tip of their pinky finger. Still I will write, though I must weep too for the monkeys that ever starve as naught a morsel of food lies on the ground yet over their heads is a tree of fresh fruits that remains disregarded, even despite their expert ability to climb

I don’t know how to write a poem about apricot rosemary ice cream and downs syndrome oysters. They both melt on the tongue with powerful differences. One churned after being picked and snipped by local fingers, served on the edge of a cliff in a cobblestone town that stands the test of time – thick houses shuttered, an empty church on fire with light inside, a pizza truck outside, the fountains of clothes-washing water, not to drink. The other plucked from the sea, shucked an

Twists and turns like melon vines, Sharp,with glistening shine under scorching heat, Adorning the fence’s concrete like a winding crown, The barbed wire runs to and fro, holding up space with a jagged blade. With rust at bends, tetanus threatening, Ripped fabric, ever terrifying, A piece of many who have dared to climb. Keep your feet safely within boots, There lays barbed wire on your fence ahead. Keep your hands fitted safely within gloves, It cuts and slashes through soft,

Arches and stations of iron and carbon! Whose callused hands welded you hence - Wiping sweaty grime from their hardened brow?

Google Earth erased my home from its maps. One day it was there, the next day it was gone.

We can only have so many concerns I suppose, by back of the envelope, just a few places at once.

oh I wonder if you and I are watching the same stars in the sky tonight

Part of me came to the sea, the part that reaches for you, an azure that peeks from behind more cloud than sky.

Supernatural winds hasten across the sky Under a tilted Cheshire moon, wry Makes for a weird mood Different from a full moon

We arrived with the same hunger, nineteen and unprepared, dragging whole countries behind us, Romania folded into a suitcase

After this deep breath, I turn back on the trail To jog toward the sun

Battles follow you where you go In soft places where harm seems hidden but you know it lingers in small shadows