The Golden Ratio Adjusts Her Expectations Skyward The sky remains the rumor-- just a perfect holy number, a perfect holy encounter and an awkward conversation afterward. Afterward, vastness cannot be just, cannot be only one awkward sky. Afterward, one lover cannot switch places with the sky to undress the rumor in its perfection. She lifts a sun- dress over her head, more vastly dejected than the horizon might suppose. Her dejection approaches infinite, perfect dejection. No love is merely. Is just. Just dressing up delicately to put one over on dawn. I Collapse the Mays I’ve Known into a Hallway and Run Down It, Calling for Help Glaciers creep across the parking lot in March, though May blooms: the latest verdant version. I inhale you and lose sense, willingly the mendicant in these two weeks of your miraculous purple air. May’s rainy wind ushers in a synesthesia ...