Love, Face, Skin




My deer, I am your headlights, the pool to your reflection.


I am the forest of your trees, the wind which sussurates your branches, the sepia foliage at your naked feet.




I hold that precious orb in tremulous hands: the golden fleece, grey pools, a flaring nostril, your cornered lips aflutter.


My tongue makes love to your penumbral smoothness.




Sheathed in translucence you are, draped in the parchment of your life, a venous palimpsest, the sanguine estuaries, throbbing pulse.


I lay my hands on this partition, I knock, you let me in.




A solitary letter ending

the alphabet.


Uncertain memories:

Did any of this happen?

Did I?

Was she?


A figure in a dream,

face blanked,



Where I should be,

her smells.

Her tastes.

Her sad, lopsided smile.


And now my being


to words:

mangled in writing,

spoken to bits,

disrupted by dial tones.


Between us time itself.