I long for you:
the snowflakes kiss
my eyelids
and layer white
on white
by my feet.

“In the linden grove beside the stream
a soft-eyed girl in weeds bends down to see
a cat near death, his fur like cream”

“In this story of the hermit saint, one stoic thorn
from the rose honors the responsible

with blood and pain.
The moonlight, like an open door, questions and answers us.”

“A few drinkers are still awake,
lit by shadow
and a tallow candle.”

The heavens mapped? The spent mind
of a wanderer mapped back upon his silent sky

She’s gone now, probably
completed her transformation
into pure crust

Priests talk about the end of time—
how all this will burn.

But sometimes, time
strikes a deal with the living

It’s true: my dearest friend did not die
when I was in España