“e quindi uscimmo a riveder le stelle” —Dante Alighieri, 34th Canto, La Divina Commedia A tiny thing, a particle, a protein anointed in oil,
I drive by your house, sometimes, the way an aging hunter runs his hand over a buffalo pelt, a broken hart’s spine, feeling for
the gap between her thighs delicate like the space a wolf spider’s ground web claims between strands laced across fallen willow oak leaves fragile
You lower all doors the way this knob works it out where your hold will slow the sound waves make starting out from the