by Clara Burghelea A bruise down the thigh or sinkingteeth into another flesh. A ring of sky,or the deafening storm. Dreaming of coffee all my life, then hives.Obsessed with soft leeches,choking at the sight of blood. To have and to hold, otherwiseeasy with the in-betweens. Inksliding on paper, then softly barren. Lying on the floor with you,naming all secrets, or Read More