ABSTRACT
and what of the wretched book, my love that never could be writ do we concede the truth my love and make our peace with it? there are too many words in the world, my sweet but none are left for me – I am losing my hold on words my love they are slipping away from me … oh – must we always fail in the mirror all our noblest houses fall gouge our body contours though no thing stands at all? I am left with a hole in the wind, my love a hollow tug of the sea a tear in the texture of night, my love a burning I cannot be – and the bones that break through the skin, my love and the skin that brazes the bone and the blood that glozes the brain my love and the brain that grazes the stone. – and so what of a hole and a tug and a tear a burning that can’t be borne and what of the bone and the skin and the brain this body that can’t be worn? 11will a burning braid with the bone, my love see these hands that are quite blind – will the brain be hemmed to a hole in the wind by this bloody skein of mind? and the skin will be stitched to the tug in the sea and the stone to the tear in the night and what ever is made in this way, my love is all that I can write.
