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.
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 one, & we imagine this is wholeness & we believe we know oursel
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 keen, nor compelling, not enough, not when you already know how
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. There is no revelry in roots no matter how deep they run, only f