As long as your beating heart
Is caused by mine
As wide as the Atlantic Ocean
That filled with salt water
As high as Mount Everest
Is impossible to compared
As far as the Sun to Pluto
That takes forever to explore

That is how I love you
And
I'd risk it all
Just for you

To kindle a fire,
the autumn winds have piled
a few dead leaves.

Here, at the end of the world,
the flowers bleed
as if they were hearts,
the hearts ooze a darkness
like india ink,
& poets dip their pens in
& they write.

"Here, at the end of the world,"
they write,
not knowing what it means.
"Here, where the sky nurses on black milk,
where the smokestack feed the sky,
where the trees tremble in terror
& people come to resemble them. . . . "

Here, at the end of the world,
the poets are bleeding.
Writing & bleeding
are thought to be the same;
singing & bleeding
are thought to be the same.

Write us a letter!
Send us a parcel of food!
Comfort us with proverbs or candied fruit,
with talk of one God.
Distract us with theories of art
no one can prove.

Here at the end of the world
our heads are empty,
& the wind walks through them
like ghosts
through a haunted house.