By Holly Day.
they touched her with the softest and slowest kiss.
wrapped around her wrists
it was summer before the first blossoms opened
finding their way under
her parchment-thin skin, invisible hands
bones too dry for salvation. tightly wound buds
up here, a halo of trumpets woven
in her hair, thin fingers
a necklace of scarlet against her chest
a net of green tangles, tight around her neck.