It Takes Time For The Absent To

I Want Nothing From Love, In Short, But Love.

At The Top Of The Iron Staircase Leading To The Stage, The Good, Dry, Dusty Warmth Wraps Me Round Like A Comfortable Dirty Cloak.

By Means Of An Image We Are Often Able To Hold On To Our Lost Belongings. But It Is The Desperateness Of Losing Which Picks The Flowers Of Memory, Binds The Bouquet.

By An Image We Hold On To Our Lost Treasures, But It Is The Wrenching Loss That Forms The Image, Composes, Binds The Bouquet.

A Few Days Later, I Found My Mother Beneath The Tree, Motionless With Excitement, Her Head Turned Toward The Heavens In Which She Would Allow Human Religions No Place.