The joy that isn't shared dies young.
And what of the dead? They lie without shoes in the stone boats. They are more like stone than the sea would be if it stopped. They refuse to be blessed, throat, eye and knucklebone.
My mouth blooms like a cut.
Depression is boring, I think and I would do better to make some soup and light up the cave.
It is June. I am tired of being brave.
You lay, a small knuckle on my white bed; lay, that fist like a snail, small and strong at my breast. Your lips are animals; you are fed with love. At first, hunger is not wrong.