The need of some imperishable bliss."
Death is the mother of beauty; hence from her,
Alone, shall come fulfillment to our dreams
And our desires.
--Wallace Stevens, from "Sunday Morning"
Like you said
The big
sleep we never
watched each other
with sad eyes, cat
bites hand and I hold
your, there is, there
it is, hand. You
take your shirt off
and I can't stop
thinking I'm sure I've
lost a lung, a long
drive to the old dead domes,
where we sit in an igloo,
bounce on a plane,
sleep in a trailer.
I brought you cold
fish, came inside, I found
the hair you left beside me.
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