It never starts on a first page, it can't, it wont.
Make this your start and the lamp light your sun.
Sweet robe of morning, when chill pursues my nakedness.
Your kiss a tongue of weeping, i miss the wanting, not the wanted.
Her eyes still cast the stone, a creature's shadow creeping.
But never in the daylight, never on the breeze.
This is the shape i make in the moonlight, i catch silver.
Were i a wolf my blood would pump quicker.
And if i were a spider, my many legs would wrap around.
The firmness of her belly offers a tongueless clue.
We cry alone together, separated by our own impossibility.
Sketching idea that phlegms from emotions unutterable.
Manufacture flame from shade - give me a picture.
Portrait of solitude, a lone lee ness, a song.
A poem of crisis and buzzing bees, they carry us.
Over earth and under the wire, catches my throat.
Curdled and gargle, as wrath of bitter toad.
Her purity (a song in A minor) suspended between two hollow trees.
Swung from a bough, beaten, dry, lidless eyes.
And toothless ears! readily suck at swollen strings.
Her hatred is my refuge, no man is an island.
I start counting backward, and lose my mark, in time.
