We lack a medium to voice Our daily pandemonium. Granted we are mindless Insects on a Sisyphean errand Of ceaseless scuttling

Bunkulung Dreams

With the blend of millet wine Sipping; resting Among the blooming and towering trees Snuggled under the blanket of unkempt foliage Leaning against the arms of Murmah Khola and Balason

Nights at the New York Hilton

I miss my husband’s smell, even his hairy back! I pick gnats for memories in the wool of chimps. I lobby the United Nations for land where My friends can roam freely.  I hit a wall of chimps.

Las Pampas

Skies like freshly-pealed orange halves A precious and pulpy atmosphere like a sun-bleached birthday The flat-flat horizon with oblique shadow-showers in the hazy distance As a raindrop cracks the glass gladly


Nameri and Jia Bhoreli entwine like lovers, Their offspring – little fish Gliding under the water

Three Poems from Chile

I will hide my house next to the zoo, and build it with two streams running through it. I will sneak a mosaic under one stream, a doorway through a cabinet, and a cupboard in a hollowed-out TV set.


The sand is a violence of many hands, the bus a trespasser scuttling across dank furrows. Fangs of arrowroots rise in speckles of sighs, match-boxes are lopsided love stories.