WORDS ARE THINGS UNLIKE THEMSELVES (R&R)
mouthred: the sound
flutters, unsure of how
to fill an empty Coke
can, much less a room—
take a square and pull
it up around the black
grid of this chair, exhale,
this is how I work.
these days are waiting,
impatient for the nights,
for haunting scents that
cling, like lovers, to the
pillows.






















