Lovers and wife’s lipstick  leave rouge palimpsest  across my funeral arms,    tell the mortician ‘I’m so over them’  and my neck still slips from the rope    If my fingers could pull strings from the sun  they'd strum guitar across your breasts,  could you feel my absent  hands in...

Heading down to the catacombs   of the house, the tomb of forty years   of unfinished pieces, a boulevard of broken dreams,   half-finished art,   empty frames waiting,   longing for their masterpieces.   Past lines unwritten, words without arrangement that spilled out as ghosts   with nowhere to go. Time to dust off my life,   set...