A meditation on the cost of becoming, this poem borrows from botany what we already know in our bones — that some things can only open under pressure. Fire is the only honest path toward a life that breathes.

A wry, wistful argument against the tyranny of productivity, this poem mourns the moment childhood ended and the clock became a boss. The most quietly radical thing in sight is being unbothered, unscheduled and going nowhere.

This poem finds in the small, specific details of a faded friendship something most of us have felt but rarely found words for.

A poem that moves from ancient Dionysian myth to a chance encounter in a Mexican surf town, arriving at the irreducible argument for feeling everything.

A love letter to food as the last truly embodied technology, this poem insists that no algorithm can replace what a sharing a meal can do.