(Musée Carnavalet, Paris) Well, it was his desk. An object he touched thousands of times though he only wrote in bed, an imposing ebony wood desk with twelve drawers into which he stuffed thousands of pages dampened by wild, twisting black-ink river sentences and the half-opened velvet curtains, ocean mirrors, torn perfume flowers of his […]

If only I could touch you (dear reader) your body without words, empty as paper.   If only love didn’t turn on a dime every time, or wings were made of iron, not feathers or wax.   If only your shadow could teach blue hope arriving soon—these lines   an animal in snow, leaving no […]

black velvet ribbon with one pearl tied at the nape of a delicate neck balcony window open toward sea here is a mother & child a sewing basket & lace a floral path to a garden gate closed your forever strokes of color all shades of white & grey lie veiled in a cradle of […]