Eyes closed, I inhale, I imagine:
a fine needle in the arm opens your chest,
raises you to a high pitch,
sets you humming all night.
Saved from
I am writing this card, as I feel I must, to tell you how sorry I am that your mother has died.
Guitar slide of the patella Scores the harmony of a monk At the prie dieu. Kneeling As the sword anoints a lord. The I.R.A.’s