Saturday, 11 December 2004


The page has opened, a tear in monotony.


stolen passion with fluttering breath sees

eyelids firmed shut, but urgent wanting

drowns vision ahead of physical forms.

I can’t stop touching you:

collarbone, shoulder blade, ribcage,

hipbone, femur, ankle.

you speak of torn dreams of intimacy

in mysterious vowels, whispered,

I don’t understand ich liebe.

drift, drift my sweet

we are both safe

in our own languages


we lost the day and saw the night,

revolving pressures of the constellations

suffered through absence

(the vessel expanded as we filled it).


I look into your eyes and see

myself exploding through reduction

reducing the everything

the vessel extricates itself from its own implication

opens up, posing as nothing

it is everything, every thought is a removal.

you leave on monday,

on monday there is more nothing

on monday there is less something


The page has closed, a suspension of routine.

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