the sky falls slow in slivers and shards; to us, it’s all silver. we walk through the yards of the blueblooded bored, and each candlelit window’s a faithought restored. in thermal profile we see each other’s faces, a sheath of warmth around…
she tends to focus on the phases and forget about the faces. she studies so closely how resemblance dissembles that she trips on her shoes’ traces and gets trapped when trading trembles. she’s one of those unfortunates, so sensitive to gravity, who…
by alphabet, by number, and by sign we net what nature never met unwed and make of space a square, of time a line. reality by [t]reason realigned subordinates whole heart to half-wise head to half-abet a numbness by design: diminishing to…
spring is her season. we met her in May, when fields were full-flowered and thoughts of snow stowed well away. that same melt feeds her down and deep, the warmth that wakes from winter’sleep with trickles turning torrent at each dreamdustreambed’s yawning…
a kiss is not a quest[ion]. this axiom we hold. Fortune’s not the only one whose favorites are the bold. in itself an end–and all the same, a start–it can be an answer, and an arrow, and an art. we inveterate urbanites…
practicing ardor: wearing another’s armor, to show untanned skin.
the photo on the mantle’s framed in oak. it’s mostly out of focus. she’s steady on tiptoe, and her hands are quiet. in the foreground, clear, a crocus blooms blue riot; behind and blurred, legs loom long and gone. discovery on Sparrow’s…