Opportunity makes the thief,
and you give me plenty: fire
left unattended, hours which
nobody counts, a button left
where it fell, surreptitious
touches, the color of your skin
caught in morning sunlight, the
shape of your anger. Hope. You.
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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