i used to think i could find home by
tracing your fingers back to where...
In an air-conditioned,
crowded mall...
y/our laughter is a metronome
playing into the late hours of...
I have so much to say
but my throat is a gas chamber...
your name is scarred tissue
on my tongue; your incendiary...
Ceramic tea bowl -
It had broken in the storm...
Having no else present,
but that which makes all else visible...
The rambling inside you continued,
while you sat in that square room...
This time the violin played in struggle
to strip itself naked from drama...
(I)
If weary eyes about this classic form...
the fireplace crackles, washing us in lights
of oranges, reds and yellows – the nights...
What makes me feel so sad,
I do not know...