Tuesday, October 28, 2008

I smell my hands for strength against what I feel for you. The wrist and smooth forearm, mine-yet theirs for now, I know. The wind from the fan dries my eyes and tells me where your lashes fall to pillows with cases unwashed for months and to a bed sunken in on one side, your side, the side you sleep on, curled up in a ball curved behind none. 

Monday, October 27, 2008


It is Our day of paper. Hatched from trees and 
processed from pulp, it is even more delicate than 
a bubble, for at least the orb can fly. 
Our piece of paper has no defense 
against tearing, burning, shredding. 
paper rocks scissors. 
paper covers rock. 
knife slashes through paper and through Our 
fingers lying there, cut off at the knuckle.