A song of eroded notes.
A featherlight thread.
A pillar to hold up the wall.
Eyes which only saw emptiness.
Ties by which I was bound.
The wind which billowed behind me.
The sunshine at my side.
An unadorned crown, heavy and cold.
For my friend on the occasion of her wedding. What I know of mirrors is their imperfection, their imbalance of mathematics: one reflects...
For my friend on the occasion of his wedding. No eye for art, you said, and turned toward Hunger, livid color leaving you cold, neither...
It is not Death that watches us with suspicion, yet you invoke Her name anyway, make of Her a boundary, make of me an earthen intimacy....
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