You have me like a drawing, erased, coloured in, untitled, signed by your tongue.
She stood upon a continent of ice, which sparkled between sea and sky, endless and dazzling, as though the world kept all its treasure there; a scale which balanced poetry and prayer.
It is a moon wrapped in brown paper.
I still read Donne, particularly his love poems
I'll be left writing picture books and fairy tales
Time hates love, wants love poor,/but love spins gold, gold, gold from straw.