My juices have run into wrinkles of side streets. They formed like glassy pearls and dropped into the sea. And on the other end, dangling over some pier, rooting through the sewage of his teeming city, an urchin with a hand and an eye grabbed them there. From a kiosk of black hair and the lines of spice - and street life that rim his nails with wandering days - you are selling my oysters to hungry tourists.

public housing

Overheard, boy to his mom: Lafayette Garden? Lafayette Garden? All I see is trees with no leaves (pause) and a bike.

poems now

do dslfpz dream of bodies when they sleep? do they float on a sweet undulating green wave - gentle on top of everything below - and every once in a while - an eye socket - an empty space where a life was - watching now not here - the families on the shore. Or are their dreams landside? Disrupted by people jumping over fences and high walls trying to get away or over the nightmare their dreams built?