Leaving Rhode Island White coral, lightless chandeliers, ship’s rigging etched in scrimshaw: last night’s wet snow weighs on the trees, keys of an old
The old bridge endures in this new shade of blue, a stolid Prussian against the small of dusk’s pink light, a moment steeping now
A farmer has planted a white telephone booth on the headland facing the Sea of Japan. He’d hunted for it through all the junk
“The act of running ones fingers tenderly though somebody’s hair.” (Brazilian Portuguese). I’ll take fifteen minutes to put on the rain while you jazz,