A wine glass
Tipped over...

The bell rings
Stampedes of students...

Ink stains
On her hands...

The moon rises:
A single teardrop...

6 feet under
Your hand reaches down...

I don't know that girl
Staring back at me...

Often people ask me
If they can read these sacred words...

Nights spent
Staring...

Darkness blinds
And saturates...

Strands of hair
Aged a gray-brown hue...

The mind
Is a corrupt thing...

Caught in the middle
Of the great tug ‘o war...