published in Volume 2, Issue 3 on May 21, 1995
clinging to your fingers no matter how many times you soap your hands in ritual lather you cannot erase those brown stains of a life marked by choices: What color will my next lover be What space will we inhabit Whether dreaming to carry his lust to term or to consciously abort. Now only in the course of a dream or a dreamt of visit in phone calls and letters we chart each others progress through foreign places. Our litany of being: We are stretched across a cable under the ocean voices pressured, muted, stressed by the slow weighted water poured in a basin. You are the ghost at the other end of the cable your voice a fist closed on my heart.