Thursday, March 25, 2010


Within the archive of letters that flowed
from his fingers across the keyboard
she reads hindrance, the not yet unfolded musk
of moth-white flowers in the powdery air of dusk

There isn’t anything there, on second look,
only kerned curves and vertical strokes—
black on white—not, as she thought (the backlit
screen a veil, the image revenant),
pain behind the eyes’ lens,
decking the surrounding skin with lines.