I like that there are still delicate things
in the world: moths scattered on the storm
door, their soft brown markings like un-
finished embroidery. One bit of string
incense tied into a bow, exuding a warm
green smell from a greeting card. The light
hand of the tech who finds the vein in the hollow
of your elbow joint, drawing out a small vial of blood
without asking anything more of you. A cloud-
blue mug on which the potter left a dent exactly
the size of your thumb on one side. An eyelash
that floated onto your cheek, quiet as a virgule
breathing between two lines of a poem.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
