If you pluck out my heart To find what makes it move, You’ll halt the clock That syncopates our love.
Worse even than your maddening song, your silence.
Dancing is the normal prelude to intercourse.
And I identify too closely with my reading, with my writing.
No day is safe from news of you.
I felt the mask crumple, the great poisonous store of corrosive ashes begin to spew out of my mouth.