[A] Adrienne, remember the garden in which we walked on that winter day of sudden warmth, its bridle path with absent horses and that frozen pond at one end? Remember how I warmed my cold hands over your spine's archipelago of delicate bones, afterwards?

You may not, I suspect, for fire doesn't track all the moth wings it singes. So I write this memory into ash with my coal hands.

[B] Our twined arms a volute against winter's long fingers in that early spring as we kissed again and again in the grass under the weeping willows.

Now across borders, I wake at nights suddenly, and attempt to clutch at rain's continous blanket of sound. I am stone-cold. Aren't you too, Adrienne?

this buoy.antville.org is breathtaking