The first time I read in workshop, I fainted and broke my nose when I fell.

Conceptual poem

(‘equal to a gift’)

Our countertops shall be as spotless as spotlights are dramatic / on skim finished gallery walls.

As Marx writes, “It is a matter of confession, no more. To have its sins forgiven mankind has only to declare them to be what they really are.”

The weight of the past is felt in the most inconspicuous of circumstances.

Such is the constancy of the human heart: that what our suffering sets out to destroy, a painful longing begs us to preserve and reconstruct.

Others who still wish to rejoice —those who could not live without their share of happiness — gathered in a small cult of beauty.