harking back to an earlier poem of mine: poor wendy -- all the heroines get left behind. but she was a darling after all. yes, i very much have tears in my eyes. and it shall be hard to see, and sometimes i won't want to, but i will go on looking an...
i breathe : i untie the lace strings of my left lung and think what can i do with an aorta that i'd torn right out, only to put it back in your right pocket. once more. your lungs are sorrowful swallows full of off-white fumes. swallowtails bloomingly black as tar as (i can see the blood seeping through the cotton linings now) i thought — perhaps i should draw in my broken metal wings again — though i renounced their steel feathering months ago — weeping in a malignant medea sort of way under city lights, christmas lights and scattered cigarette butts but you didn't see visions of sliced chests such as me; of those malign tear-stained tissues.
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