Arnaldo, grasping at everything, gaining nothing. Random
and every bit as compelled.
The wicked flee
badness was always within him, a cancerous rot
awaiting only a few drops of rain
to bring it forth.
A few drops of blood.)
Below her window he sang dulcet sonnets
in a language she could not speak.
But hast done evil above all that were before thee:
for thou hast gone and made thee other gods, and molten images,
to provoke me to anger,
and hast cast me
behind thy back:
The crones perch like songbirds in their wire chairs as he walks by.
Knowing smiles that lance
Every sin that a man
doeth is without
but he that committeth fornication
sinneth against his own body.
It was in the morning she was first missed.
All her work