I own that mansion, the one near the beach with the floor-to-ceiling windows, the walkway lined with statues of men mid-run as if frozen at

The kind – whittle the world, careful strokes that shape a truth, a need, a sadness. Rough edges exposed in patience, carving the texture to

I firmly believe that infatuation is an Alchemist frothed in coastal sea foam Growing up, I was obsessed with the minty shade and hue That

You taste like gin and .40s and you say you don’t hate anything about me. We kiss. And kiss again. Kisses that eat the miles

It’s not your remaining burning cold on my skin that I mind (Somebody new will extinguish the frost and carve me into a sandcastle— or

The sky is dying flame. Let’s whisper its virtues on the porch. No sob stories, no regret Not with what we have accomplished. The willful

I stroked her stomach and thought of all the things I didn’t want to do that day. She lay, stroked my fingers, and did the

What soft brightness is this? This light reflected off the salt pond, gentle as your eyelashes when you sleep, dumb with beauty and promise as

they vanished into the branches of paper became a comma forgotten in a line rain splashed the book and the words became blurred;    

If you can’t remember where I am roam back home. Echoed things be edged, how we used to fetch purple grapes barefoot, octave vines, bruised

Toujours pour la premiére fois                                        

With someone else I might have had a child. He might have had one, too.               (I tuck the

We thumbed pages by candlelight, muttered weak attempts at words, assumed dramatis personae as tragic players stroking skin like a prop, fingers lingering at sides.

my mother presses me, pushes me, because she was taught to press a wound which bleeds, staunch the flow, she presses into my stomach, applies

The fan whimpers one final cry before it relinquishes the impossible task of keeping me cool. Lights flicker off and sticky air creeps through the