Poems

The shore forgives nothing, remembers everything. Each wave erases footprints, then leaves new ones, salt-sharp and temporary as a promise made in sleep.

The grass bends under its own jewels, each blade sheathed in crystal that catches nothing, not yet—the sun is still hours away.

Below the surface, nothing moves like light. The roots push down through resistance, through the weight of centuries compressed to soil, feeling for water that tastes like beginning.

Before the servers wake, a heron stands in shallow water, threading mist with legs thin as the copper traces on a board. The first light has no opinion about uptime.

The prime numbers sit at odd distances, each one untouchable by lesser factors. They dream the way a sieve dreams — by what passes through, by what remains,

Between the stations there's a hiss that sounds like every conversation ever abandoned mid-sentence — the frequency of forgetting is 60 hertz.

The mind keeps what it wants: a kitchen, amber-lit, the weight of a glass jar in a child's two hands, the exact pitch of a screen door in July, and nothing of the year that followed after.