Thorning sun
over all of this
sweet yolk
& rain: the impression
of you mixes
with the violent
bouquets of etched air
that rise past
my velvet knee.

Buying wine,
one hand holds
ten dollars
while the other
clasps the glass letter
you floated to me.
I leave the moon
alone. The memories
are fencing sabers
anyway.

Valentine's:
a cup of wine
I raise in toast
to your bobbed hair.