hyperventilate
foreign sunsets
myself; myself as reward works
so rarely now
lonely made it dangerous
hollow - nervous as a moth
low - another soft loss
for the quietly heartbroken
the celibate set
haunted out of worlds of possible
contents; I a terrified graduate of another
puzzled winter claw
my brown-papered bottle
for a message
my almost biblical need
for enchantment has
built everything around
the clouds; my refusal has
grown like a statue
I am pariah.
I don't Know from A to B
The sun is a Shakespeare play.
The morning is
backward masking.
The covers hold me like shackles.
I kiss the pillow where
your young head lay just an hour
ago. I want to go
to the mirror but the mirror is
gone. This is
a time of no reflection.
This is the morning I act like myself.
