The peril of this thing is to imagine you in the
     word marvel.

Anything that must point towards the Sun
     must be tender with meanings

in the dinnerless evening
of the leaden chapel of silence there is always
a fury in its own movement say,

a touch of a hand on my svelte upholstery,
machination of an enigmatic discourse towards

fluidity of bedazzlement simply by saying
   you want to go out in the center of which
   pulses with a different life but with the same name,

or to briefly wonder
   if the word marvel is its own fault and
accurately measured in longitudinal  fashion,

so innocent on the passenger seat now groping for
some warmth from the black subcompact with metronomic sounds,

the mechanical work of this droning disfigurement
   is that even in wings

you    are relentlessly     going   and going
   crossing points   and delineating   crosswalks

with more   x-ed  angels  lamenting their   able wingspan.

Unable to give birth to new conflagration – grace of prayers is nothing but
   sadness stilled in sandalwood and simply this poem,
a letter of intent to crush your face and fracture your bones the same
     way you do with mine, in every evening where

the final squall of the throbbing moon is a realization of the answer:
I am the one who wants to drown you in total darkness,
    and my final word wanting to scar.