Monday, July 30, 2012


forty nine.

Is this exhaustion?

And of what do I dream?
(Do we dream?)

We walk always in that head of yours,
Crouch behind the eyes and look at the
Ground that way.
Drag our head through sky.

I know very little of myself I think,
These days.
I am changing too quick
And too well.

But I know much of you.

Is that true? Is it just that I
Know the texture of your skin--
As though it were my own?
(I crave it still)

Then this dense inhalation.
Out there 
Standing on snow, 
Out there
On the steps that lead into your apartment.

Inhalation that freezes my throat
That rips at my lungs,
And the breathing out.
(It pushes just past my lips
Before stopping.)

Out here,
How vivid the blue light looks.

I crave you still.

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