Warren Heiti Quotes

The taste of chalk. The sun lays its copper thumbs on my eyelids. The radio plays the monologue of a dog. What is the formula for tomorrow?

The sky bruised my eyes with rain's weight and my body was a held breath.

Your self is a cosmetic
fiction, a centrifuge.

The mind is moored to others;
the wasps orbit on little tethers of light.

The iris of your fist
constricts.

Your voice, an evening
in late June, ice losing
its edges in a jar of tea.