A little thing, like children putting flowers in my hair, can fill up the widening cracks in my self-assurance like soothing lanolin.

Do we always grind through the present, doomed to throw a gold haze of fond retrospect over the past?

The sheets grow heavy as a lecher's kiss.

The body is amazingly stubborn when it comes to sacrificing itself to the annihilating directions of the mind.

That afternoon my mother had brought me the roses. "Save them for my funeral," I'd said.

Then I thought, "No, I broke it myself. I broke it on purpose to pay myself back for being such a heel.

Beached under the spumy blooms, we lie Sea-sick and fever-dry.