Poets

She dreamt of a man out of wild silk, a wise man who made her body and her past catch fire, but the frail wisdom

For the first time in a year and a half, in the dead Of a night of the moon's last quarter, he's asleep On his back. I see his features that are mine. And odder still, he's growing. His mouth, ajar

What holds on is inedible. The oldest houses are exchanged for newer rubble, and smooth stone reaches out to older rubble.