they’re falling in love with the ground.
Because I’ve forgotten the geography of a woman’s shoulder, how hard
and brittle in places, how supple and stemlike in others.
Because my desire alone isn’t enough for both of us.
Because if I showed her the stars at night, she might see them as
nothing but light cracking through a frail wall, and I’d have no words to
When I pronounce the word Future,
the first syllable already belongs to the past.
When I pronounce the word Silence,
I destroy it.
When I pronounce the word nothing,
I make something no nonbeing can hold.
I don’t belong here. I know
that. But I don’t belong
anywhere else, either.
And that is at the heart
of the black depression
pressing down on me,
flattening me. I have
no place. No home. Sex,
but no real affection. I am
kept, but not cherished.
Is it true that your mind is sometimes like a battering
Running all through the city,
Shouting so madly inside and out
About the ten thousand things
That do not matter?
I’m pulling you out of the burning buildings and you say I’ll give you anything.
But you never come through.
love me and I wander around
the house like a sewing machine
that’s just finished sewing
a turd to a garbage can lid.