the distance
of things from my center
together with the dripping self

language rests as a drop
on a fatal slope
or a sound in frozen space

I have hands
but they never touch
anything

I have thoughts
but they never refer
to anything

and while I feel like cancer
growing on the insides
of my own soul;

I have bled beauty
like a suicide of god

there are areas of life
inaccessible and foreign
my flesh is ghostly
my feelings barely perceived

I am like a spark
engulfed in its luminosity
and everything beyond it
staggering darkness

in that incomprehensibility
I move and dying.

POEMS