What do I name that place between sleep and five a.m. when I’m driving through the tropical fog; light striking through the banyans? How
After Pablo Neruda, LXXXIX, 100 Love Sonnets When I die, close my eyelids with your hands. Touch me with the thermal dryness of your
Jessica, my postal worker, it is a snowy night in December and you are knocking on my front door with a package asking if