Assemblages.
Pieces of past lives
Balanced on the windowsill.
It's cold outside.
In a crystal ball
On a copper stand
A picture of the world
Inverted.
The lonely man
Puts out his hand
Trying to fall through it.
A tongue poked out
To catch the snow flakes
Finds only bitter tears.
Coffee dregs and day-old doughnuts;
He longs to taste the Moon.
A packet of letters
Pressed to his lips
Tasting of
Perfume.
For ghosts of lipstick kisses,
Skeletons make room.
Frail fragile
Collections,
Tenuous connections.
A motley crew of ends and odds
Barely kept together,
Almost holding on.
It's cold outside.[pre][/pre]
