Lingers and the room is Dimly lit. Beside a high Window, she writes.

The sounds of summer rustle in, waves through stems of Green and yellow.

The furrow between her Brow has deepened as Her hand moves, stops . . . starts Across the long page.

If only she'd smile, instead Of that cursed expression . . .

a hurt and shame that maps The lines of her face.

The solitary latitudes, The longitudes of memory.

For a moment, touching the Side of her head, the grey eyes lost, She fingers the fading hair, Watches the shadows silver light.

Still, in twilights dusky sheen, she can Picture his solemn face, the sunken eyes And the ring missing from his finger, The reflection of his Punic faith.

Reverie by Michelle O'Sullivan

The muse doesn't tempt or ask.

She whispers lightly as she opens The door, touches your earlobe, The soft curve of your neck.

She doesn't beckon or whinge But takes your hand in hers, Sings low at the side of your face.

Everything, she says, bring everything.

Future Tense by Michelle O'Sullivan What does a certain woman know about the hour of death?

. . . Mandelstam You'll make a man out of him by leaving Is what they told her.

She never did though, It was the gunshot That eventually did that.