And I, stepping from this skin Of old bandages, boredoms, old faces Step to you from the black car of Lethe, Pure as a baby.

Is it the sea you hear in me? Its dissatisfactions? Or the voice of nothing, that was your madness? Love is a shadow. How you lie and cry after it.

People or stars Regard me sadly, I disappoint them.

That afternoon my mother had brought me the roses. "Save them for my funeral," I'd said.

I get into a rut, unable to yank my mind out of it.

Only I wasn't steering anything, not even myself.

If the body is a temple, then tattoos are its stained glass windows.