I do not write to you, but of you,/because the paper that we write on/is our perishable skin.

ink marks the page/where you execute your will like a doe announcing an/ox-stern mate with a single, bleary blink.

I walk with a dual longing for life and for death.

Tonight, I won’t dream, because nobodyhas held me and no hands have strayed and eventhough I’m drunk with love, my arms are empty.