there is nothing, the airless cold space between
particles of soil
unbearable
and then there is sorrow
deep, warm, coffin lining
unbearable
i am a corpse
i am content this way but for you
the carapaces of beetles are strewn around our house
so full and so empty like a cobwebbed window
am i poetry in your head?
would you know how to tell me?
this is not a language you speak
the tears i shed are yours
you are my skin and i envy the solitude of skeletons
and then i shiver
it’s too much, and it’s not
like knives, but bruises
though i cannot remember the blooming
what beautiful things do i have to offer you?
what left, what found
let me lie in the chill of the earth in the morning
my bones are weary
let them lie
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