Blessed virgin, whose shapeless loathing
has caused striation in her forearms-
giving herself to the faceless lovers
who will live her story without her and within her
what touch is human that does not taste of salt?
what flower blooms without our notice?
the breath of kings which mingles with fresh-slain serfs
made more clear by the biting cold surrounding them
blown-out socks
the smell of overbearing soap
the desire for friends at a train station
belonging without requirement
On the second tuesday of a boring september
the lady at the front counter
(the one who gave you your room key)
may have wondered how many of you there are
and how many won’t realize that they have always been you.
a collection of poems and thoughts 