Like scarves that have run and bled all down the beach, rows of them under the violent sun where the dog noses its way
So very bald was the dying man and weirdly transformed by the shadows that now grew along all the veins of his dwarfish body
It is the time of long evenings, and they sit by the window waiting for the golden hour her gown is as heavy as
You might think this is too much sharing, and my wife, who for this poem I’ll call Irene (which, coincidentally, is her real name),