All these roads are as the print of lashes
on his body...

Audio...

I was all the desolations one could ever have,
all the distance of loneliness...

<<to the mother of Holly Jones >>
I saw your neck...

...

Like all the whites and pinks tailing
your heir...

We might be just a dot, a stratum,
buried in the layout of ladybug wings...

To explore the possibilities of words
is not the poet’s due...

Even though blindfolded to that
it is only ourselves...

Eyes, eyes, eyes,
I just see your eyes...

Death is what my hands are searching in my...
Death is a floating object...

Don't leave her.
Separation is not freedom...