“I have loved you so much that I believe I understand you a little.”
Marcel Proust

we are wearing our glowing skins
full of unwoven whispers
or au contraire
we’ll have worn them
-who knows
in poetry, not in theory,
anything is possible-

one of us could say
“take this animal
out of my eyes, teeth, bones
for wild flowers
to grow in my sockets”
and I’ll say:
“for my eyelids to rest
in the shadow of your breath
and my vertigo, indigo
in the nest of your palm"

-words are just riverbeds-

see you - the sea in me
at the echo point
of blood

I’ll wear rivers
lipstick
bluebirds

in this poem of touching
every cell is spinning
its nucleus of *numinosum
while the day breaks open
into the heart of trees

-words are stones of silence,
unintelligible altars-

I was in love
with a vertigo man
last time I checked

blood has its madness

When Death finally reaches for me,
as a cat would ****** a mouse.
I'll distract him with some chit-chat,
then punch the ******* in the mouth.
Scream, "You sure took your time!
You miserable, arrogant ****!"
I watched so many others go,
I've grown quite bitter with the schmuck.
He'll raise his gleaming sickle,
and view my end with angry eyes.
I'll laugh and laugh content with that,
before he took me, I got mine.