I know it is a song
as much as a scream but
it melts the walls: let me build.

How easily / I could imagine a version of our lives / in which he kept all his suffering secret from me. / I saw the beer on the counter.

The train stopped, still loads new passengers, but the conductor won’t let me get off and kiss you. You know that’s what I haunted to do.

The only currency that abides
is how we choose to spend our time.

Sweet loom, old friend of an old woman / you are an ancestor she prays to

O, ancient / wonder, rose of unsullied joy, I sing / to the majesty of your sun-loved face / —your color so pure, petal fine as wing, / leaf’s thin veins a natural puzzle of lace.