I remember when the tides were reliable,
the days when I'd sit opposite and watch
how they'd rise and recede, how they'd
come back in with a spray of laughter,
the set of a bottle on the beach. Now,
I see only the sun on the surface, all
glitter and gold and look-at-me shine,
lacking sufficient depth
to pull me under anymore.
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