It Is Possible To Be Homesick For

The True Life Is Not Reducible To Words Spoken Or Written, Not By Anyone, Ever.

Say Heat. Say Wet Between My Legs. Say Legs. Seriously, I Want You To. Stockings. Whisper It. The Word Is Meant To Be Whispered.

People Will Always Make Comparisons.

Something Is Always Happening, Even On The Quietest Days And Deep Into The Night, If You Stand A While And Look.

They Passed Out Of The Shade Beneath The Eaves And Flew Into Sunglare And Silence And It Was An Action She Only Partly Saw, Elusive And Mutely Beautiful, The Birds So Sunstruck They Were Consumed By Light, Disembodied, Turned Into Something Sheer And Fleet And Scatter-bright.