I have a pink envelope.
Inside,
an illegible letter to the lusts of love,
and a silver pendant.
Above my furtive seekings,
my want soaked lace,
my cutlery colored currency,
The Watchmaker mends his watch,
The gears our teeth gnashed.
Tag: poet
An Old, Good Idea
In the kitchen at the homey table
My hands read Molière.
Does the rain ever rise up?
Miniature Moon 