if i go on, out of sheer buoyancy,
the heart will decide to die
at the point of contact; immediate
and then some,how shimmer apocalyptic:light
that i know damn well is blindness.
so i keep still.
if i seem closer now, like white words on sky,
ushering you into and away in a hurry.
and into the grey i go;
i demand the birds murmur.
keep knowledge, that i weep:: let it endear me
strangely to your side because i did bleed light;
but any body would be better to hold.
would i lamb and slaughter beneath the howl?
would i be allowed to burn my hair:
would you care?
if i ..
[no, i cannot speak that]
if i refuse insurrection; speak to me of anything at all,
of one last expressionistic deathlife.
be mouth to neck with viscosity.
articulate. unlearn my sound. my deepening.
every word i've ever swallowed grows, falters.
yes, church is running late this eve.
if i bang my skull
against the dawn, not even dawn will
make you fade; the ones i kill
"i to whom there is not beauty enough in moon or tree;
to whom the touch of one person with another is all,
yet who cannot grasp even that, who am so imperfect,
so weak, so unspeakably lonely." ~Virginia Woolf, The Waves
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