My thoughts are sallow and feeble.
Tears stinging like apple vinegar.
Cursed blinking of the stars
And satellites.

Words filtering.
Late and present.
I pucker at the
Sour, bitter moon.

While a ripened summer peach
Swoons in.
Its branches lay across
My thumping, aching heart.

Letter in February.

The woman is complete and perfected.
Feet saying we have gone so far,
And now it is over.
Bottle of wine now empty.
A petal-free rose, torn and ripped.
The moon can not be saddened,
Looking down at her now.
Timbers winding up, up into crooked
Shoes not fully worn, not enough creases
Not enough footsteps.
Not enough miles walked.
Broken hearts and sadness,
Havoc tossed like angry seas through
Weak, paper hearts.

For you, Auntie. You will be greatly missed.



I saw my life branching  and twirling out before me like a clusters of grapes. From every tip of every vine, like large, fat, juicy grapes, a wonderful future beckoned and winked. One cluster was a husband and a happy home and children, and another was a brilliant stylist marvelously sculpting ordinary people into goddesses, and another  was an artist painting canvases abroad, and writing beautiful poetry, another cluster was Europe and Africa and South America, and another cluster was Marcus and James and Oliver and a pack of other lovers with queer names and exotic professions, and another cluster  was an Olympic figure skater, and beyond and above these grapes were many more I couldn't begin to make out. I saw myself sitting in soggy mud of a vineyard, starving to death, just because I couldn't make up my mind which of the grapes I would choose. I wanted each and every cluster, each and every vine, each and every colour. By choosing one I would lose all the rest. As I sat there, indecisive, the grapes began to shrivel up and go black. One by one. They plopped to the ground, dead, into the muddy earth beneath my feet. Worms eating them whole, and moles eating the worms.