Remembering the past And gloating at it now, I know the frozen brow And shaking sides of lust Will dog me at my death To catch my ghostly breath. I think that Yeats was right, That lust and love are one. The body of this night May beggar me to death, But we are not undone Who love with all our breath. I know that Proust was wrong, His wheeze: love, to survive, Needs jealousy, and death And lust, to make it strong Or goose it back alive. Proust took away my breath. The later Yeats was right To think of sex and death And nothing else. Why wait Till we are turning old? My thoughts are hot and cold. I do not waste my breath.
In the days of yore I was a parakeet and my mouth a river The lights low to see into other worlds Vessels completing circuits Ancient conjurings and obscure geometries Screens so lovely If I have a true self it is you Blood, slow Dimensionally agnostic and lost in the loam A gun- powder portrait or arc that ends with smashing into glass Skeletons scanned An imaged sky If you hold me in your head I will be happy An edible ghost Encoded identity in a cloud of processors The difference you experience entirely different Perforated form Sad appendage The heart, a stencil