After Amal Al Sahlawi Do not ask me to washmy skin of this dust, this gold,this......

i alwaysremember thefirst time i mistookthe dulcet desire for daringdevotion—the steamy ways handstangled in half-lit rooms......

it transpires with a honkthat shatters terra’s atmospherea mute swan sundering through gravity’s larynxlike a winged......

When we remain the last speakersof the dialect of damp decades,who will listen to the cry......

Sad like blinking traffic lightsat dusk staring at a November crossing like the dotted grin of......

We are terrified rabbits,Falling into whiteness (I)So, phone the greying fire tendersput out the remnants of......

Why do I love the work of László Krasznahorkai? Because he challenges every part of my......

Windows That Never Breathe I have always said our house had more windows than necessary, but......