My hands on her back; slipping into sleep

Her hands on my back; slipping into sleep	Stellar Regions	The little death and Veronica Lake	don't think so loudly; whisper something in my ear
as close to me as drawn gun on a dark street	I am scared	Love is tangerine light	Priapus
Jeanette Winterson	Clive Barker	look beneath the floorboards for the secrets I have hid	Days and nights come together in a slow falling down
silk	I fall silent, listening. The breadcrumbs are talking about us	July 5, 2008	three poems for Anton Webern
The sky is a machine for making gods	Sheila dashes madly into traffic as Euros flutter down around us like injured butterflies	September 10, 2002	Every beauty is a tragedy waiting to happen
amhrán	Play the Game

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