"Terry"
by paloma
I've seen his face,
flat as a
beggar's plate.
Each morning
he stands at the corner,
for a handout.
The sing-song
yellow of
a woman's laugh,
someone he once knew.
"Gillian"
by paloma
Pouring maple syrup out of the
bottle this morning,
he remembers.
Her hair poured over her
breasts,
as he knelt behind her
kissing the roundness at the
top of her neck.