Sonnet for a Lesion on the Fusiform Gyrus I have lost her letters—the ones where she called me jellyfish and praised my soft hands. They are rotting somewhere in my old house: the ink bleeding into the folds of wide-ruled paper. I try to think of her face when my skin stings—burning from the inside. […]Read more "Sonnet for a Lesion on the Fusiform Gyrus"
memory is paper . . . a thin veil against light scribbled on colored in (sk)etched out painstakingly noted between thin blue and thick red dashes indications of lines to cut, lines to stay within. written rubbered stamped erased embellished boldened copy / paste. stained concentric circular rings starting then stopping time with morning coffee […]Read more "memory is paper"