"The hooked fish thinks of the water as long as he can." - Henri Michaux
Why is this one more cardinal's chewchewchew
never enough, the last build-up of chords
full of coming rain?
The body eventually eludes desire
as the drunk may someday put down his cup.
As the senses diminish, the chemistry of memory
still fires in greens and blues,
the flame of this glass by your bed
only blown out with your last breath.
It seems we're never done with beauty.
