Summer was never our season, or so
it seems (excepting Scarborough beaches,
crossing bridges by Five, colorful eyes,
those few sticky nights we still hold on to):
first mute, then blind, now trapped in different times,
the heat has always been kept down. But that
sensation—waking beside you, the cat
spitting allergens at me, purring, “Mine!”
as she nuzzled your chest—was still worth it.
If I could I’d have given you sunlight
but the moon waged war with us, and our fights
were never known for being temperate,
like the summers we keep wasting away
or nights spent wishing for one more day.
poetry
A small sampling of things I've written over the years that could arguably fall under the general blanket of "Poetry." Much of the poetry you see here was originally published on Five By Five Hundred, and you can also find my stuff in upcoming issues of Asimov's magazine. (please note: this isn't actually structured into any kind of order or anything)