forthcoming publications:

FRONTIER POETRY: how often I have chosen love (chapbook)
INDIANA REVIEW ISSUE 44.1: the floods of summer 2018
WINNER OF THE JUXTAPROSE 2018 POETRY PRIZE: if beauty is nothing but the beginning of terror
JUXTAPROSE MARCH ISSUE: search by no light
AURORA WINTER ISSUE: women, arriving


SPITTOON: five poems
TOKYO POETRY JOURNAL VOL. 6: tokyo in the way of invisible cities; indian summer
THE SHANGHAI LITERARY REVIEW - "CONCRETE": in which we open the box marked home to find eternity inside
THE BRIAR CLIFF REVIEW VOL. 30: the worth of a woman's life in china
GRAIN MAGAZINE ISSUE 44.1and hong kong in 2001 was always this
shade of light blue

REDIVIDER JOURNAL ISSUE 14.1the nation of aphasia; the girls of harbin


a street in this town sounds with the smell
of strawberries. fragrance physical and heavier
with the arrival of july, stocked with leaves, with
fruit, with a hand that picks them to be iced
over a week-end. typhoon season and without
umbrellas while the shining sky comes down
in its droplet conditions. an inscription
by the momentary. in parking lots, in the entrance
of supermarkets, in the shallow overhangs of
yellowing izakayas we stop to wipe the water
from one another’s shoulders. we can see
the mountains from anywhere. we follow signs
we cannot read. it is the longest morning
of our lives. our fingertips taste like
strawberries for weeks and weeks after.

shirahama, august 2017

bruised brick, baked bread
breath collapsing into grey when
caught in smoke between the compartments
of the metro. the pink lights from
the townhouse on rue de rushbrooke
finally go out as the sky tries to blue. 
chequered tile, white corduroy, 
men who smell exactly like
their animal selves eating dollar-seventy
hamburgers out of wax paper. the jukebox
doesn’t work, but somebody’s playing
billie holiday upstairs, and that’s good
enough. on the way home
farine five roses blinks in
and out of sight, rigid in a night
that is not. strawberry colours. 
holding on to a bag of pistachios,
the streets are full of garbage. laundry
yellow and falling out of the sky like flowers. 
I walk and walk and walk along charlevoix
without coming across a single
other person. 

montreal, april 2017

Photo 2017-01-15, 12 42 55 AM.jpg

where do we put first on a map, barefoot
in the rain or between shotgun-bare branches
along the roads of ikebukuro which curled into nothing
and the concrete was embroidered crystal just like
the pacific on occasion, same grey deep blue
the air sometimes contained as well
in july it was hot enough to briefly consider drowning
when being in tokyo was forgetting how to swim
or being overcome with thirst neck-deep in the ocean
windows white past midnight were birds
strangers dangling off highway overpasses were good company
and after the moss-clouds dawned we could hear terrifying music
that landed on our hands like rain, washing out the scent
we left upon one another. then when I held you it was dancing
and it didn’t have to be saving you.  all the other figures
from the photograph faded out until we were the last left
I could still hear you telling me that we weren’t lost
and you knew exactly where we were. 

tokyo, july 2018 


days pass, nothing
nights come, nothing
breakfast is biscuits and cream, and nothing
bridges are crossed as if they were nothing
and the river below also nothing

only the look on your face is something
but time is by and by and it is nothing
hands elapsed the air, greeting
and bidding farewell to nothing

the poor moon drinks cups of water
and spits them out again in the morning

harbin, june 2016