452.

Desire fills up
my lungs in a desperate
attempt at drowning.

451.

There is no under-
standing that includes escape
from memory's grasp.

450.

The husk of her pain-
soaked voice, hurtled out so long
ago, still stabs me.

449.

I still remember
the feel of soil there, held
like the earth's prayer.

448.

The picture was cast
in the leering expanse of
her melancholy.

447.

Sometimes it's as if
the world bears its own compass
on hard stories birth.

446.

Her body held sway
under the lights and shadows.
A sexy comfort.