Each breath an ensemble,a thousand silent strings plucked by the wind.The low cello hum of lungs, the sharp flute of air,the sighing oboe of a body in rest.And somewhere in the current,the base of the earth vibrates beneath,bending the...

...the moon a pale bone coagulating insomnia a thud of memories excommunicating nostalgiatrapped in a bottle of rum, suffocating meas I lay me down to sleep, whispering to genie 

"Bless his naive heart," she whispered into the darkness, a phrase as soft and sharp as a scalpel's edge. It was an old southern comfort meant to pity the foolish, but she had drained it of all warmth, leaving...

I am the ghost of coffee stains and old pagesin books, the echo of frayed threads and knotsin the box of unfinished chapters. The ghostof the key that once fit the lock, now anapostrophe.