Poetry

Amnesia.
I want to drink tonight,
purple hellebore.
 
Like to protest―
the display of private things.
The humming.
 
The alphabet of
betrayal. Who wants
the award?
 
Amnesia.
I dream of dying,
feeding the doves.
 
Was it too early
to start getting dressed up
without a show?
 
Amnesia.
The hyphens don't
connect now the broken strings.