1769.

If only clouds could
be beds, coming down to pick
up dreamers each night.

1768.

A soft lull in the
onslaught, caught within the snare
of slow surrender.

1767.

Autumn keeps calling.
Wishful dreams kept at bay with
the summer's malice.

1766.

I dream of us, tied
in a slow sinking. Our hearts
such heavy anchors.

1765.

The idea of his
surrender lures far more than
its reality.

1764.

That longing sits just
beneath my breast in a slow
beating, until death.

1763.

A diaspora
of the senses. Displaced like
such empty fodder.