Home.

No wonder there are so many churches in the south; as soon as you step outside, you experience immediate baptism by immersion, ushered into the church of the hot and sweaty. We are a glowing, moist congregation.

I wrote a love poem about a chair in atlanta:

Where You Once Were

vinyl and thigh must, at time of parting,
detach with a lingering grasp;
the separation is announced
with reluctant sighs

an impression, a well of past recline,
pools with the hot tears of a love lost.
both participants, animate and inanimate,
are marked by what has passed.

stagnant winds and heavy air, too,
preserve the memory.
until a new form is discovered,
where you once were will remain.

I have just rolled in to my apartment, dropped my suitcases, whipped up a cup of tea and now, a breath and then...homework.