Friday, December 16, 2022


What if it's 
our uneasy, smoldering 

which leak and rise
into the night 

like curlicues of smoke
from some 
phantasmic cigarette 

that repopulate anew 
the great hanging archive  

which we all know, 
upon rising, to call 
the veil of sky? 

What then, is the difference
in regretting a thing
or desiring it?

Would we still long 
to relive the quaint 
feeling of a kiss,

or clumsily desire 
fewer screams than laughter?

If it's dark, fretful nights 
that engender 
the day, 

what on earth's the use in 
being afraid?