regret for ghosts gathers, like tiny bones in window-wells and stacks, itself regardless of decay It plucks, like tongues tease stitches taut but bends, white ridged ribs strung to the setee Where I tucked, unupholstered ankles to buttocks waited, to hear the curves of it Sigh In remiss of requited love shuddered, still warm.

It was one time on the veranda, clinking fluted glasses together in adagio; a fluid, synchronized celebration. There were fat bulbs of yellow light lattice-laced from white post to post along the terrace. Intimate tables were set, small glass rounds not much bigger than a porthole, so that the limbs of lovers would knock; their hands touch, their legs graze. They would carry a conversation so close, so near to read each other’s lips, to hear the whispers without sobriety or secrecy. The wome...