nothing is like me, but the sun
burning coldly; an afternoon spent
in despondent silence, a brilliant curse
muttered in the beginning of the bed.
of course, i remember everything with audacious colour
and i think i climbed over you to get to the place
where no one else ever was.
i feel the black green quiet.
the sky is sad and i wonder what i could do to you
if i fastened myself into the arms of a recluse
and never made another word?
ordinary sounds, so... ordinary
and again, ordinary heavens pressing on my temples.
there is more screamed out in the unutterable.
thoughts rising every night with curves and arrows.
such transgressions of being, and how do i know
that it isn't a paperdoll effect that cuts me;
i do love the moon in her rotting orb.
i find her shaved and bandaged and bound.
i know her womanly sickles
and her cells and how i appear rough
[you said that already]
under the blanket, like a poor crow's carcass
stuffed back with cries of any thing unadorned.
but i dream urgent.
and i dream that i have smothered the living
with the dead, and buried the stars that spoke out
loudly; this glass looks back.
and if i hold my heart outright [out, right?]
the strange softness begins again.
so i do.
hold the cry