On tufts of time the small birds flyand catch the margins of my eyesas afternoon comes blowing inand sunlight settles deep…
I am made of ghosts — the small, wide-eyed girlwho clutched a juicy pearand smiled for the camerawith ribbons in her…
Woven between weeks and daysand in and out ofmonths thatmoved like minutesexist the many ways we lived and lovedand carried fragile rays…
These lustroussky-flecked orbshave known the bitterness of lifeand yet they echo back the solid voices of those gone long beforewho…
pry the brittle fingers of deduction from the slippery ledge of false seduction
Such heights as these among the starsobserve the faceof sun’s fiercefresh-faced strife shot back in raysthat volley off the planets…