“you lay bare my subterranean heart / with its roses […] / and wings of beasts of prey”

“All cords easily untied but the one binding me to what I loved.“

Does the cosmic space in which we dissolve taste of us?

In this mouth I gather darkness, an aria, rosewater tongue, tympanic bone, a poem more quiet than quietness, a bronze song, something undone, salvia, a crushed butterfly. It is the blood on a light bulb, the seventh sadness, a fluctuation that closes oceans and eyes. The vermilion and solitary luminary shimmies and singes the feathers of the aviary.

“Time, like a swallow’s shadow cutting across the grass, Faint, darker, then faint again, Imprints our ecstasy, and scores us. And time will finish this, not I, and write it out, as only time can.”

But I hear only your voice, your voice soars with the zing and precision of an arrow, it drops with the gravity of rain,