You are my stranger and see how we have closed. On both ends.
Night wets me all night, blind, carried.
Would I dance with you? Both forever and rather die.
It would be like dying, yes. Yes I would.
I knew I was in trouble when all of my dreams were either about dying, or kissing you.
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He lifted himself from me. I heard him unlock the door. For a moment, I felt the cool air from the river, smelling of fish. Smelling of Eve. It made me shudder. I was cold.
There is an essay on the language of the dying. The dying sometimes speak of themselves in the third person. I was not speaking that way. I said: I am bleeding. I am going to bleed to death. And I will be lucky if I die before he returns.
Give me my Scallop shell of quiet.
You know, they did not print the whole of the Indian song in the subway. Only a few lines. But I know the poem.
“It’s off in the dance. It came into the room. It’s here in the circle.”
I know the poem.
She knows the poem.