All my fears – death, destruction, disease – breed curiosity.

I love you more than the sun, more than the rain, more than...

The stars are slowing just enough...

I can see the seasons changing with my skin...

I hear it on the border of our clamor —

Beneath the window's crinkled corner...

Love is in the details...

I feel myself unravel like a summer skein of hues...

Like a flipped-over puzzle to me...

I'd like to think the forest and I...

It is a soft thing, my memory of you...

There’s something about new-wave jazz...

My emotions perch precarious inside me.

We are all a little something human—

Now is thicker than before. Reinforced by the comings of wisdom...

Deeply out of practice...

Spinning, like a top atop an Everest of regrets

We've got an Andy Warhol sofa in the living room.

It smells quite like a diner on Avon, though I don't recall ever passing

I find myself unduly composed in the most malignant moments—

Think of me, Miss Bishop.

The salt and bluster of the Eastern board

I secure my loneliness with safety pins

Cotton blooms sift through the bruise