"Dust Blows But Dirt Has a Home

An army of poses laid flat, the flush of your cheek--

This tower has a spiral staircase, a little window at the top--

From here, your confession made a clean unraveling--

Listen to me, Aldo (as if comfort could be contained)--

"It's like pulling socks out of the wash, trying to remember last night's dream"--

A different language for a different time of day--

Drawing targets on everything, a kind of twitch--

The dance, the dance, the dance, dance without turning."

Gunther Quinte

K. S.