When you spotted the deep pucker lines around the young woman’s lips, you whispered in my ear, Smoker, as if you would never die.
Dear Angel of Death and your silent orchestra, my brother got here first. We disturb him, put on masks. I’m not sure why,
Another Holy Day – the table cannot hold Creation as it is: the eight-month-old enraptured with his reach; the toddler who paints with gravy;