A touch, of course, to set it off. I prepare my singing along with the river; I condemn it still once and for all. A halcyon madness, a definite stretch across the border and then– an unexpected hardness. Where I thought I would turn limp, inconsolable, I am: not. Instead, a sheath. An armor of sentiments. No longer a surge of flames across the skin-border. No longer–
Some disaster at the hand of cupid: your arm against mine in a soft, forgettable July.
What theory was it– what grid with its sharp edges– that caught us, gashed us through and thorough, down to the core of our logic
to whose cause we devoted each other, sacrificed the bodies, kept our sentences wound around a shared psychosis, haplessly spent?
It was an idea before it was our condition. It was a delusion before it was a deed.
When I was hurled in your direction, there was a yes before the bleeding.
To burn, to bury, to lay still your ghost. To dream, to forgive, to mourn. To grieve, to long, to turn to stone. To shift, to not, to set you off in a poem.
To set you off in a poem, permanently: to put an end to the throbbing of our wings. If I was to exhaust myself of your memory by writing–. I could not, or? I could. But to what consequence? Could I bear the insight, could I bear the casual disaster of a truth that does not– persist.
I wade through a viscous terror with a difficulty I do not want to be rid of. I want this– I want the jolt, the stab, the defeat, I want the curse of memory; the wanting of it takes away any power you could have had over me.