A curtain billows. A window bangs open and a pane falls out of the sky. Out of the spice drawer, trails of pulverized achiote and dry asterisks of clove. Restless in sleep, she turns her face toward their warm fragrance. What is a wordless summons? an effigy of the past laid prone in an empty room, a distant lake holding its cheek open, waiting for the first colors to fall. What wraiths walk the quiet paths, waiting to be seen? Offer candlesmoke. Offer dove wings and citrus. Such immeasurable longings.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.