when I saw you, I thought
he is not, though here he is
lukewarm and small,
like a hulking stillborn

“My tears have been my meat”

even at seventeen
I wondered if you had eyes
which could settle nine feet high in the ceiling
my fantasy that you pitied
the way I saw my suffering

I was old, and born again
everything was potential
and all things might be true
but without parent, without food

“there can be no ego without melancholia”

your outline in the doorway
in the middle of the night
asking me to love you
desire hitched careless to sign

nothing is not nothing at all
but an arrow being born
and settled in learned hands
that catapult to find the eyes
between horns

“Perverse it shall be where it shows most toward”


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