“He was a poet, but not when it mattered. He could rhapsodize about the changing colours of fall or the rind of an orange peel, but when it came to real life conversations, he was empty. He was all pith and skin. He had no substance.”

from “hot and heavy”

“a blooming tree encrusted with gems / shining beneath the summer sun / branches like hands needing to be held / pulling you into red / into honey / into him”

from “sweet acid”