(1) The difference between solitude And loneliness - a maple in fall Light, and a maple in snowy shade.

(2) The frayed yellow Virgin's cord from Brazil finally broke today. How forlorn is her sparrow wrist.

(3) For revelers on the train, Isn't tomorrow too another Mask to wear?

(4) I would be lying to you, love, If I didn't confess my vampire Blood quickened for her too.

(5) In a night filled with poems, What are friends but their Beginnings and ends?

He opens a page, a vein of wood, and writes in royal blue, of the blues, distracted by the fires heaped on sidewalks.

Every tree is an omen, a burning bush, and every line written under their undressing shadows, a journey back to sunlit rooms in which Adrienne's

hair veined the white snows of beds, across the splayed cities of a continent. He should be fleeing such devastation, and the winters that trot at its heels.

Yet he keeps looking back, again and again, thinking he can hold on to autumn's crimson in its passing, forgetting his fates are those of Orpheus's lot or Lot's wife.

In a field speckled with the last of the cone flowers, and grass Bending to rust, I gaze at This city's unchanging steel and Its caged ambition - and before its Doorstep the ever mutable sea.

It is these borderlands I inhabit - Serving at Mammon's temple and Stealing into Mnemosyne's vestibule, As I wait for the winter's breath To unloosen me from my green Fever, and make me as naked

As the aquamarine nestled against                              Radhika's throat.