That Love, what I love. O this, this singing over Lamb, Merlot, and no apologies, this Is the fuckable dream of success, as Defined by my Freshman Composition Student.
Words are a species.
And all without language. The little emptiness That used to make me full. A virgin on a bed of twigs, My head of salt Stinging and anesthetized, I swallow the gristle of those invisibles, Raindrops, Little bones that look at me, Thoughts that widen Like hunger. For years I watched your dialogue With a mute television. In the black and white You lined your consciousness with the faces Of Buchenwald, Auschwitz, Treblinka.