Poems from sleepless nights

sometimes I grow tired of the puppet ghostsI keep glued to the tips of my fingers, bored ofthe way they groan and nip tiny forests of...
I    the yarn, atlantic-tinged blue  and sword-hilt gold  was born from her  crepe-plastered skin, trailing from  her fingernails like ...
you don’t ever notice her, but she’s there, the smiling woman with her home in the corner of the screen, spilling a foreign tongue from her...