ink marks the page/where you execute your will like a doe announcing an/ox-stern mate with a single, bleary blink.

I do not write to you, but of you,/because the paper that we write on/is our perishable skin.

I will meet you on the nape of your neck one day, on the surface of intention, word becoming act.
We will breathe into each other the high mountain tales, where the snows come from, where the waters begin.”
-In the yellow time of pollen

Don't ask me any questions. I've seen how things that seek their way find their void instead.

You'll find magic everywhere, even in dark, dusty corners, if you stop searching with your limited human eyes and instead feel with your naked soul.

I am not a poet, I am a poem!