Some days I can’t see beyond the two small lemons as they pull down the branches.
My mother is dead. The lemons still turn yellow, the trout still stare emptily, desire is still free. We still love many people, eat peaches as if kissing.
Dusk in Winter
Everything is blue. If we mend dusk, then morning may never arrive. At this time of day, it’s hard to tell the difference between a rook and a star. Snow melts on the rook’s leg. A poem is the rook’s leg only after touching snow.
Rain at Night
To be the last drop of rain each night is sadness. It shuts the last door and jumps.