You are not a machine, but a mechanic

tooling out from under skin. And in

my head, you might take flight, alight

with chandeliers of sand. A man said

one is the loneliest number, but this

doesn’t square. I swore I’d shaken

you out, but my hair parted, and there

you were. Part of me, do you smart

with the sting of the repressed? I’m blessed,

but some day you’ll depart, a fingerwave

to your avuncular host. Then I’ll be lost.


Yours,


Another