i am nothing the dying of closeness to perform
jet

          arrayed in ****** o' quivering lightness

my own body softly

in her living muss to fay

mychestherchest

or to bleed a stuttering rill o' life stuff

where carefully is laid a garden o' sleeping children
(uncreated

                       unlivid


                                              faultless­)


lust yet incredibly to fill
crease and crevice burns
and all muscles
the tightness for hurting yearns,



                                           '




                                                           ­   .



                                            

           ­                           ,






                              ­                                                        '






 ­                                                   



                             .