Worry is a white
fox, a snowy ermine...

Tonight I'm sipping nostalgia bitterly
from a chipped mug. Hunched over...

Warm wood held tight
like a body to the chest, neck...

There is nothing so perfect
as the bud before the bloom, nothing...

A ghost is not a person,
but a space...

Shivering, I go
with a red ribbon in...

It's December, and
the fog is stalking...

Clever cirsium, too clever
by far, arms herself in...

The Seven Sisters slink their way
across a crystal winter sky...

The wave approaches,
silently...

The two-faced god
of Romans and swindlers...

The tarnished, gaudily guarded
childhood ended in the quickest...