How is it that you
Are not here and I
Am always in
This consonance
Of yearning-
How is it that you,
Yorself have the silences
Of tempests formed
Under mendacious
Seasons
But you are not here
But you are not here
And you are far
Enough to catch
Beyond a century
If mistaken
I could hear my skin
Crawl
From the sullenness
Of my skeleton-
I'd dismantle my wrists
If it ment this suffering
Would subside.
