January is stretched thinly,
thumbing through breadcrumb
poems piled like dirty sheets
tossed into a corner on a rainy
night

The moon does not belong to us,
this is a fault for believing so;
our mouths went dry as bones,
counting the years passing
by

I am running farther behind
each day: I try to remember, I
try to forget the creeping hours
sewn onto ragged hems of a star
—(for love)