For my work as a translator and editor, please see Only Today ->
Portrait of a Scar

Bring back the sea
sun hands to stretch
          across us. Cold splits
the satin
skinned lords,
          baring fig
guts. The wasps come, one

by one, chasing
across the marble.
          Flies lace the cake
plates in the glasshouse as
                      frost embroiders
                      moss. Winter
now. In my

jalopy, my pigskin suitcase scarcely
          holds your crystal
          gifts and in my rearview
                      mirror, boxwoods
green your tiny figure.

Smithereens as I take a corner
          That night your face, golden
beneath bouillon, haunts each soup
plate. The line is