Robert Grazioli


the dead aren't buried.
they are sewn into earth
and left
to cradle fruit
and bear their roots.

order of time

there is poetry in the order of things
the infinite particles
our invisible strings
pulling always

and never

valentines day

suspended on steel
screaming toward brutality
the garden was

a bud in hand
to plant one was to bloom a smile
grew love

Design is a Spoon

A note to an aspiring designer.

Thoughts on process

A thought experiment on the importance and meaning of process.


i blacked out

the night was drenched
in spoiled, oaked, grain
i sipped it dry and forgot it had rained
my memories
betray me

they make me up and crack me