There is so much satisfaction in the beauty of your filthy hands,
and in the largesse of your arms.
That the edge of the blade is a mere disturbance
In what this life has become.
Fragments of kisses, dewy and cool,
A calling of cheer and stagnancy of your hands,
That the white-washed walls will bring me to you
Again, from the rancid growth of a horrifying curse.
The premonition of a familiar kind,
Grows in sentiments of convoluted thoughts
Across the beat of your chest.
But as long as you live on in my dreams,
There will be no life in this infected mind.
And no life, indeed, there will be!
Throughout the singleness of a careless idea,
Like the burning of a hungry man,
The death of an unwilling life,
There will be pauses to understand the simplicity of it all.
But there will be no suffering in disguise.
I can either find the sentence that tells me what to do
Or I can survive this night and look for you tomorrow.
There is no escape from what this ground demands
Of a woman like me.
So sinful, so old.
And while you kiss me across my chest,
So balmy and warm,
I look across your body and through the window.
And I see outside as how inside is.
The flowers they fade, and the grass has curled.
Now there is darkness, and darkness is my world.