Just Another Requiem

A thrush picks at plastic

as chemicals cement both ends of beak.


The flutter of wings travel past sound

not faster, making gentle things


in the mind behind and beyond

machines speeding down the street.


An unassuming bird leveled

by artificial friction.


Maybe their end already went,

and this is just another requiem.


almost forgotten

the wind yells at trees

for abandoning children

before it began


Illuminated Leaves Conjure Memories

Earlier today you wanted to touch

the light on the trees and realized

that some shades of green aren’t even physical.

You didn’t think of the unbearable

because you were in movement,

recalling an old man named Sunny

who advised against idleness.


Sun Turns Grass

From this angle

sunlight turns grass



No Association

There are few instances in a day when one can convey.

This city gets turned on by the smell of its own decay.

And referencing nature while only knowing remnants,

of which, are lined up and cut out mathematically, yet imperfectly.

Despite of all the talk about changing the self,

the fluidity lies in the circumstantial.

The monotonous repetition and contradiction,

desiring cold while hot and vice versa.

Left and right thighs twitch back and forth

while the grass around shivers and sways.

Sylvia Plath thought she was the God of grass

and so she had the power to take her own life.

Call it having short sight.