I kept your lipstick print on a demitasse

for years. It has faded or is gone, I haven’t looked
at it in a while. I’m not sure who you were.

The house is full of small hermetic rooms that I
never enter. There are trails that lead to safety.
I’m tired of reading stories in the dust.

The spiders bring the spring, they are hungry
after a long winter sharpening their desire.

The flowers have come out everywhere. They
are not shy with their sexual intentions. I am not
as bold as the rain; I will not touch their softer skin.

It is a picture postcard stuck in the frame
of a mirror, the season doesn’t pass, it is a
memory no longer noticed.





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