• Seneca Basoalto

The Cracking Teapot

my perennial fumes unfurled from the sheets and sniffed a bowl of lemon

sugar that reminded me of your kitchen | a freckled floor, respirations that

remain half–asleep beneath the cracking tea pot. let me in, or I will wear

away on the grass, right here, a spinning rotor made of sandglass and illegal

ivory | nothing seemed familiar because I’d only ever seen love through the

blankness in your stare, expecting it to smother me between macerated fruit

and rye, like a Babylon of star clusters crossing against immeasurable pastures.

tell me, is any of this true? perhaps I forgot that time does not exist

but for those who retire in their hearts old image.

Recent Posts

See All

Honey Cornbread

Who waits longer for their lover to show — the living or the dead? The static of a dream, our song on repeat / my pulse alone could carry the both of us. It's untrue to say I live without you, I never

Screaming Bluebirds

the death of me goes with you too, where sometimes I can see breath pause when you think everything else is moving / it’s all in the way you receive light and indent your buds directly into the earth

The Volcano versus The Sad Man

He undressed the flames that built nests atop his shoulders, father volcano, a misshapen pupil leaking a reflection of tulips positioned against the sunken part of a mattress, across from the window i