From the shadows I appear an imp

Red as an apple, red as the lips

That occupy its scabrous flesh.

My eyes wallow

Tucked into the furrows

Of their considerations

Veils woven of regard

And denser with time

Like the patches of a quilt.


A world of aqueous distortions

Awaits me, a world

Of seas pulled drop by drop

Through a channel smaller

Than a needle’s flirtatious eye.


My memories are cold

My bridges razed

Bat-winged passages

That shriek and nip.

I must be a masochist

To come here so often.


Your fingerprints

Sheath my bones

A film like the smut

Of cream on plastic

Water does not absolve

Your breach and soap

Does not penetrate scars.


My thoughts are with you

Against you, powerless

In their recounting

And what is the epoxy

That holds families together?

Is it blood?

Is it the thresholds of salt

Like the tracks of cocaine poured

Cautiously over a cosmetic mirror?

Is it the transmission of secrets?

The indictment of a soul

Too young to comprehend cruelty?

Is it guilt which boasts the deepest roots?