Eyes and smoke and sordid stares.
How the mirror breaks – like a spider’s web.
Abandoned lips that slowly turn to stone.
A length of hair, or darkness.
A single flake of snow.
An echo left alone in night.
Flesh vows sewn by strangers.
Broken windows, dead birds.
A bruise on a smiling face.
A pile of unopened letters.
The last page.
A promise she knows she’ll break.
The train in the night!
The ones we wish to love.
The ones who refuse to love us.
The last beautiful . . .
An idle heart.
An hour-glass of blood.
Paper skin and match-stick thoughts.
A little boy, or a young man, or a man, by any right, who cannot cease his grief, who cannot stop, who can not.