Category: Poetry

Not a rose, not a red-lipped promise.  I give you a garlic clove.  […]
I have gathered them for you, cupped in my palms, their skins bruised […]
Your touch, soft as a breeze,  sends a zing through my skin,  a […]
I unlatch it with both hands, the old frame tottering, as if it, […]
Do you see the poem   happening to me when I look at […]
Not the sigh of skin against skin, nor its echo,  not the soft […]