I spent the night with a poetupon a bed of narcissm,knee-deep in a warwith balled paper and pain.
This is my vacancy, my loves.
I settle, breathless,in tempo,
The salt of my hourglass drainsin crystalline time...Poured in finite aridness,bleached with the palenessof a ravenous nothingness.
The rain fills the groundwith the shush of jumbling kinetics,triggering some, pistol-liketo somnolence;consciousness ad r i ftwithout…
I can provide the narration —a tongue for your musings;in your visits to my home of the dead.
I play hide-and-seekwith the past while taxied,waiting for my own moment to leave.
Have you ever tried to write, only to find an intimate disquiet? A silence that you’d find when you dress in a…