Rodin, Le Baiser

She keeps a hand, secretly curled, to herself:

curled back and away, but still part

of the centripetal whirlwind.

Recent Posts

Bird-scream bustle you tangled arms and cars pushing and pulsing with dreams caught in your throats—gag— wait—is that a dagger I see...

My house but the rooms are not mine. Here is where I sat to escape my death, here the mirror of the many faces. Each room says “where?”...