My Heart And The String
During the day, I sit on the floor.
My weak head pounds like music.
Pounding the rhythm of fucking and sorrow.
During the day, I count things like breaths.
Little makes sense, but mathematics makes sense.
There are one hundred and seventy eight things in my sight.
The sweet sweet imperfection of your teeth is not one of them.
The unorthodox flecks of your skin are not here to be counted.
Outdoors the sky is a weak smear across the land,
I have forgotten it. Outdoors the Sunday sky is
streaming with sirens, sounding their sorrow.
Jasmines rattle pots as the wind walks the floors.
During the day, I feel I have been shot in the breast.
My fingers are mad on the edges of things.
My fingers are clutching and white on the tables and counters.
During the night I wonder if I am able to do this.
I wonder if I can become a lone thing with dark hair,
loving only the language.
I wonder if my heart and I can become such a thing.