A contemporary poem about the herald arrives quietly, using a concrete image system, a pressured turn and a restrained open ending.
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He does not ride in with the promised fire. He comes on foot, carrying a bucket of ash. At the city gate, the guards ask for a name. He gives them the sound a match makes after the flame has gone. Behind him, the old world smoulders. Ahead, one black seed waits for rain.
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A spare surreal poem of blue sand, a rooted flower and an untouched hollow, where thirst, worship and absence gather at the edge of dawn.
A lush surreal poem of glass, fruit, flowers and a forgotten mouth, where polished beauty breaks open and weather enters the body.
A surreal canyon-edge poem where boots, dust and a watchful rim turn vertigo into a strange conversation with the drop.
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