Photos first, then the
baby albums. Love letters.
We can buy new clothes.
Packing to evacuate
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Photos first, then the
baby albums. Love letters.
We can buy new clothes.
At 6:30 they
awake to find I’m still up.
The curse of deadlines.
Can it be midnight?
I’m losing track of time, hours
misplaced like lost keys.
You think you know me.
Carefully constructed, I
reinvent daily.
Anonymity
becomes us all as we put
our second life first.
At my church they price
too high. Refugees, students
leave empty-handed.
Today it didn’t
happen. But I thought it would.
What does Facade say?
I was first published
in Seventeen magazine
thirty years ago.
To possess few things,
humble in beauty and worth.
Such simplicity.
The spareness of what
I write contrasts with my
cluttered existence.