I had never dared to conceive of you—your design was too audacious.
There was a moment I last crossed your mind...
I get frantic sometimes, when the heat rises up from the sandy streets. Recollection suffocates, and I go in search of air. I stand where you stood, near the red door, or beside the table where we celebrated. I mimic your gaze and affect your repose, but the geometry falters and I give it up. … Continue reading Poem: Strategies
Four poems about loss and one about writing.