Before the beautiful assistant climbs into the box, I leave, afraid he will forget the rest. Continue reading
Love / poetry / Poetry / Uncategorized / Writing
Category Archives: Love
Day 85 of 35
Mourning I went out into the mud and rain to watch stalled horses, nervous and full of heat, neigh and kick at thunder until the storm passed, and the ghost was given. Continue reading
Love / poetry / Poetry / Uncategorized / Writing
Day 83 of 35
Sometimes I pretend there was moonlight, ample. That your body was lit bright. That my eyes closed with no other choice. On other nights, I remember that it was dark. That there were no streetlights. That the stars, smothered by the clouds, could not see us, and all we had was touch. Continue reading
Love / poetry / Poetry / Uncategorized / Writing
Day 73 of 35
Skin lurid and out of sequence, seldom do these intervals lift the dawn close enough that I don’t need to squint, but this morning I am wide-eyed and there is a quality of light, gypsy and unfolding. I wait for it to find your body, mute. Continue reading
Love / poetry / Poetry / Uncategorized / Writing
Day 65 of 35
Tonight, I crave chocolate cake. when yesterday I had forgotten there was sugar and cocoa and bakers who know what to do. Continue reading
Love / Poetry / Uncategorized / Writing
Day 41 of 35
The moon, in distress, followed close, and the moths tried to pass for their cousins but failed. I wanted to tell you, “Look up,” but the light was too much. You could not see that the constellations had moved, that the lion had wandered off, that the virgin had taken a lover, that the entire … Continue reading
Day 37 of 35
It was one of those first nights in the dark of the kitchen when we sat nearly naked on the tile drinking the last bottle of cheap champagne. The dogs uncertain what to make of us licked our faces and curled themselves at our feet. I knew then. Continue reading
Day 9 of 35
My lover has watched her all day, fallen a touch in love with her blonde hair, the way she won’t look him in the eye, her stories of departure. What cannot be carried is left behind. He imagines not slippers beside her bed, but a valise and shoes made for sprinting. He calls her a … Continue reading
Untempered Glass 