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


THE SOUTHAMPTON REVIEW: december 13, 2016
SPITTOON: five poems
TOKYO POETRY JOURNAL VOL. 6tokyo 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


what is there to say about autumn mornings
and wonderfully fuzzy stalks of pampas grass
about the starlight that is inevitable and cats
in their asiatic velvet. what is there to say about
the world that spins a roulette of cruelties
and relief, shining joy and imperturbable horror
occasionally in turns, occasionally overwhelmingly
parenthetical disappointments that sit
in the mouth like salt. fevers white in the sun
and silences that shrill between violences

of people you will leave in different directions
then come across again years later 
on a one way-street in your hometown
you will have changed by then
I wonder how you will change
I wonder how the wind will throw your hair
in the exact directions of your journeys

victoria, october 2017

upon terracotta rooftops
eternity touches briefly on
the light, hindered
a moment in love
with its own fatality
and doorways appearing
as we stepped through them.

walking too much
resembled flying
I was convinced I could see
bones in the air still holding
the day up like something
had stripped time clearly
of her flesh.

beijing, june 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 


how lucky it is that we no longer make fires
to stay warm, but only when inspired
will we burn something. and lucky that the birds
know none of this. how easily heaven appears
on the page when the pen is held by someone
righteously born. how often does the milk and water
cut right through the music. when everything,
simultaneously, speaks in the voice
of the imperative. how often are sounds stolen from
dead languages. when to the left is a forest
and to the right an ocean. once, we had known
how to invite the wind in to clear the smell
of oil. known how our eyes may gather
all the light from the room, without taking away
any of it. how to repay light if it is taken.
when it is taken.

athens, september 2018