once i wrote to you of the body,
split by time
through the center: i wrote it
massless, execution style

cigarette & all.

once i wrote to you of windows,

of war, of blood spilled on
battlegrounds,
of home.

i wrote
once to you
down a sheet of paper
on to the earth:

of a body,

of my body

opened by glass, or
metal
or heat

i said, oh the red

as the air pushed at my back

i cut through the meat to show you
where i had healed.

i remember your speechlessness

louder than the sound of the cars
in the distance & the way i traced stars
in the dark, lying on my back,
pointing to the head of cignus & thinking

that is the way

how i knew
emptying & filling came
together, so

i marched streets
two by two
holding hands with strangers.

i remember you best in the quiet,
pressing the nights between the palms of my hands
trying to squeeze juice from the words.
your mouth speaking

how soundless it seemed, the light
coming off of the street.

i wrote to you once of a god
never knowing, fingering shadows.

what i said now
doesn't matter,

i am a child.

i tried to touch infinity in you.

i was cracking through doors,
trying to see to the other side,
plucking the lines, trying to make noise come from no thing

i was string & paper,
rock & water.

you see how i make pairs!
you see how i put things together
& expect some thing to come
of them
naturally--

a scattering of the sun
by dust, or water.

i expect some thing to be there: behind
some thing else, every thing like
some thing,

like
russian dolls.

i am opening your head,

searching the darkness
for a littler & littler you

each time, approaching the wall
by halves;
hatching the nothingness
of bodies & truths. oh,

we have been

such a math

of selves,
constantly moving towards the impossibility
of that final ease of axes

so effortlessly never touching.