Barely an octave in,
Torn between two signatures
and more familiar, already,
with closed containment.

For a man in a concentration camp
Any move is the wrong move,
Twisting tightens the bonds
and strangles flesh.

As much as I would
fly to you,
you must arc to me
on gilded wing

We are wedded with tragedy
Like a night flight
Shrouded with nervous attendants.
Sparrows fall from trees

A dream of damaged men,
who carry themselves
(and worthy causes)
like piles of shattered flint
in ungloved hands.