I will plug
my tear ducts
with wine corks.

He smelled like
cigarettes
and fallen angel dust,

Tragically
soft.

tired because of the things he does,
always remembering where i was.

these fickle things nostalgia brings,
icicle fingers touching ribs—stings.

your laughter on the phone
is like a sunflower
turning its face towards me
in an open field
and the specific way
you say my name
carries within
the warmth of all we've been

appreciate the small revelations
like coming back
to parts of you that were dormant
to hear them sing in new harmonies
with all of you that has changed

somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond
any experience,your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near

your slightest look easily will unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully,mysteriously)her first rose

or if your wish be to close me, i and
my life will shut very beautifully ,suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;

nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility:whose texture
compels me with the color of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing

(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens;only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands