when, under duress
the sun forgets to wake
and just lets the clouds have their say, white
is the same as grey.

i for one, alone, for too
think littlely and slow, with an anger
that bates my silver breath

i am not gilded, to be seen
but small. i must remember
i am not precious. i hate
and my lungs fill with sour water.

but when the sun
under duress, forgets to wake,
the clouds will say other things too.

(there is always this moment)


quietly . littlely

    soft within

bed and thinking
of lips eyes hair
breathing
still and strenuously

pressed beneath breast         .


the heart feels
and pushes against
rib and spine;

(a fan plays
        /
the cat eats)

and lingers little sleep,
for thought is always
and always of thoughts

there is something
somewhere
difficultly serene

improbable to touch
yet touches with
exacting grace;

My dear:

       My love
           of nothing
                Little which


you are
not real
your hand is a vapor

of tense reeling to tingle
under skin which rushes
with clovered spice
of splintered health.

(my love i have always loved you
that you are not something real;