A cunning oracle withholds the best.
The tax on prophecy is not to tell
the founder of a city how his sister

In the shadow
of the mountain
quarters click 

You can hear me walking
from your bed, where the blankets
aren’t enough to keep you warm.

Our ménage à trois by candlelight—;
the various absurdities: black lace,
pink mules, a little-bo-peep teddy.