I
love you like dying is easy. I soul you like flame is free. —so famished for flies!
our
hearts are filled religion or guts the earthquakes of colonialism.
it’s
morning, my Love, our minds are hangovers but fierce enough to gravel.
it’s
evening, my Love, a need to touch ceilings. tears frighten
helium,
such sweet wine or candles or trashbins and momentum; for what is
pain,
but names or gravity, grief and doorposts. oh, I’m
so
asleep, my Love. I can’t get near, and Smith is watching, and Chang is
knitting.
subtle
whispers, my Love: ours is pandemic—I catch you—
fevered
or lucid insanity; by friction, or bold nightmare, to eat raw cameras.
If captured
by chaos, I’ll gnaw a gnat, by voice or knee-high rain, a need to un-curse the
guts;
and what is life but ripples, siphoned by humankind. I ever to
listen,
or ever by skylight, a portal to cleave to; for I love you,
tiptoeing
deaths, as to awaken the haunting. it’s ever
by style,
my Love; and ever your love, my Love; or conniption or radiation.
