soft histories, or sophistries?
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…
it is true. the sun is a chariot chasing a_fire. the sun is a ship in cloud-seas, climbing higher. the sun is an all-seeing eye. the sun is a ball beetle-rolled across sky. the sun is nucleicombustion. the sun is the surest…
(we met in a maze at a masquerade: she was b[o|a]red, and i was belted.) there was birdsong on the breeze the morning after we first melted. we marked each other on the inner skin, where finials from fingertips don’t fade. fiery…
again i thought i saw you there. i wondered when you’d cut your hair. i thought, no, it isn’t her, you’re seeing things all wrong. but she glanced like you’ve lanced and they were playing your songs as i craned to the…
let it snow us in today (my love), snow us in our thoughts, a whiteout rift of blank[et]ing drifts to change our [th]is to what we [s]ought. let’s go out into it, try to intuit its ins and outs; let’s be snown-on,…
“one thing at a time,” she says, reminding, reprimanding—funny, how she always finds the task that’s most demanding. last week it was “look me only in the eyes”; before that, a week without whisperwhite lies. why her waves are weeklong, i have…
i have seen your smoother parts. i have heard you say “carrier”. i have spilled your drink. i have scenes of the soothing arts you used to cure a barrier between my thing and think replaying in my mind behind the [c]ling…