I miss the way the curve Of your spine fitted exactly Into the waiting space In the tumble of my bedclothes. I could count your ribs On the knuckles...
The shine of the flute Is smudged at the mouth, Where my eyes are drawn To the pucker of your lips. The flute plays in my dream, A forgiving lilt of...
Waiting. I don't know why. It almost Touches My spine, Stiff straight, Arched backs Like a catfight. A level gaze, Waiting For my explanation, Which...