She is nothing more than epoxy
a shadow of myself
who happened to stand at the feet of the fir trees
while the wind whispered my name
she broke in tumultous waves
dizziness correcting her eyeglasses
until they resembled mine
Finally she woke

with the face of someone who has lived so long before

and says Athens is a just


placability
until i move in

in stages, you;

but the unafraid was me
she sleeps on rice that has gone bad
it has been that way for


two weeks now
The trust fund prompts her to
speak of her own guilt


like it was mine.

it is, i guess.

i guess it is.