A poem is a box, a thing, to put other things in. For safe keeping.

What a puzzle death becomes, rainy afternoonsto put who we wereback together.

I can see where this is going and I don't want to. I don't.

the heart-shaped digitalis tounstrange a rhythm raving,sweet blood and slow blood throughthe muscled dark.

Even night is a gesture, sleepa cog in its wheel of stars. Lie down.At some point you lie down.

And the door, what ofthe hinge, little cry that won't uncry itself.

It's how wordscome apart in a dream.And then you're awake.

There's time, this lasting forever.

Fate behind the pillarswhere something fell.

But too much rain can translate anything to unspeakable.