"The year of the panini press was a year. It was a press year. A cheese year. A year that pressed and pressed again."

“To finish oneself is to become tedious…” A brief meditation on resisting completion and the absurd business of becoming.

"The origami children are gone." A father mourns what he shaped, a brother still tries to fold himself smaller, and a narrator who knows unfolding doesn’t erase the creases.

A recursive poem about birds, stones, and the inefficiency that might just save us. *This poem's visual structure is best read in desktop view.*

"The overpass knows its purpose: to hold the instant taut, a moment hung between moments where thought crosses thought, where the self meets the self and one must give way."

Always arriving, never settled, she travels the city streets in a taxi, tracing the blur of lights and lives, searching for belonging in a world that pays her no mind.

Orientation transcript for new Department recruits. Circulation restricted to clearance level 3 and above. A dystopian narrative presented as a transcript.

“I spent the morning destroying evidence” the world mistook it for care. What else have we perfected, besides vanishing beautifully?

In a stadium of light and noise, one fig tries to learn the language of joy. A meditation on performance, alienation, and the small tragedy of trying to belong.

"They didn’t save me. Not in the way that word is usually meant. But they gave me back the morning. A reason to pull the blinds. To let the light in."