Bengal, the tiger and the state.

Nothing but a word edged on the refinement of a plant.

 

We as humans are refineries, for words and for deeds.

Making sense of bits loosely shredded.

—

I watched him unzip his suitcase and disassemble what had taken him so long to pack.

My father was like that, uneasy in confinement.

 

It was all so unimpressive, the habits of the man I would become, refined to a few

simple movements.

 

The tiger on the jar, for the pain in his knees. It found its home in the hotel bathroom

 

 

 

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pigpen is a poet that used to live in Chicago. Used to.