just a leaf on the street trembling,
but i undo myself.
i most likely should conjure this in third person
to make it seem less disturbing, but,
i am bloodletting you know
there is some blurry psychosis in which i feel
my poetic emptiness can wait.
when i hear you, i stumble
dark out of dream. some saviour.
i am among the thick shafts of white thistles and weeds,
up to my throat, and i hear you like a sudden death; sing, sing
to me soon because i have never been so cold when i sleep.
so i am broken. so you are hidden.
when i climb the sky
and find him gone,
i choke myself
if i could make him lick the honeysuckle
from my sounds; cut him out of sticky photographs, push his mouth to another foamy skol,
drink the good girl that was once taken for a mistress.
he rests his head on the belly of a...
i recall math was boring
and i sat staring at saints
as if i would, through osmosis, become
remarkable. maybe glow
with some sort of rustling power
i did not yet possess and never would
but i did not know that then.
i did not yet lack faith.
perhaps i was beautiful before?
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