It all started with Stella Atkinson’s skirt.


Left To Thieve My Day

A collaborative poem using predictive text


first let the nacre of that word coat in your throat your throat then throw the stone lovely in its speckling up to the threshold of your mouth your mouth let it ping off your uvula clatter the back of teeth an orb in the pinball machine of your body your body enough with the swallowing …


what if we flip this crimson doubt release each expectation lark to skies refilled from looming drought would we still form a question mark beneath astonished flannel sheets our viscous whispers drench the dark forgotten hist'ry made complete would we still form a question mark If I'm omega hanging, high, above the finite point you …


Can I be your quicksilver—that slick Forever, that satiny poison you long to have near but are too afraid to taste? (Even the shadows under your feet radiate) And may the line you walk between the steel pillars of this city, the threads you lay on gum-speckled sidewalks, down regretful subway tracks, and over the rocking …