![]() Wounded wolves will pad away from their pack to die lonely and cold. They say even longing has its limits: in a bucket, an eel will simply stop swimming long before it starves. ![]() I thought I saw you last year, bark wrapped around your thighs, lurching toward the shore at dawn. Remember when you breathed through my mouth, your breath becoming mine? Remember when you sang for me and I fell to the floor, turning into a thousand mice? Whatever it was we were practicing cannot happen without you. A body can cause almost anything to happen. I dump my ashtray into a bucket of paint and coat myself in the gray slick, rolling around on the carpets of rich strangers while they applaud and sip their scotch. The work I’ve been doing is a kind of erasing. The mind wants what it wants: daily newspapers, snapping turtles, a pound of flesh. ![]() Sometimes I can feel it pulsing through the dirt, though even this you ignore. I live on the skull of a giant burning brain, the earth’s core. ![]() Sweet nothings sour in the air while the ocean hoots itself to sleep. ![]() On this one the wet is driving people mad-the bankers all baying in the woods while their markets fail, a florist chewing up flowers to spit mouthfuls here and there as his daughter’s lungs seize shut from the pollen. The earth is a giant chessboard where the dark squares get all the rain. Whether in a train full of dying criminals or on the gleaming saddle of a locust, you are needed again. ![]()
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