God, take from me the urge to smoke while I write,
for I am a writer, born perennial —
in the night, now, in the apple’s womb —.

To wait for my love to surface on the shore,
shells whistling in the wind,
sails dissolving in the sun;
to wait for my love to rise at altitude,
to form civilization, to form the
soul’s apoptosis;
to wait for my love to take its name,
and mine to remain a secret to you;
for me, pain shall be decree—state and intermittent.
To wait in silence for love to take me,
reason stripped beneath the feverish,
pale brow;
to wait for love to become death,
to wait for your name to gather inside me.