I’m lost. And it’s my own fault. It’s about time I figured out that I can’t ask people to keep me found.

My death from the wrists, two name tags, blood worn like a corsage to bloom one on the left and one on the right.

I wonder if the artist ever lives his life--he is so busy recreating it.

Though rain curses the window let the poem be made.

Fear / a motor, / pumps me around and around / until I fade slowly.

She suffers according to the digits of my hate. I hear the filaments of alabaster. I would lie down with them and lift my madness off like a wig. I would lie outside in a room of wool and let the snow cover me. Paris white or flake white or argentine, all in the washbasin of my mouth, calling “Oh.” I am empty. I am witless. Death is here. There is no other settlement.

Only my books anoint me, and a few friends, those who reach into my veins.