I guess I am improved by my peccadilloes,
their rabid squirming as fossils of affection
in the dumb sponge of heaving fixity. Every molecule
remembers a time before time, and if I open up
to receive all emotional messages (for example,
in my food), it’s because that’s the kind of maladroit
I am: preponed, animated, reticular, birdish. I miss you
as I miss the mortal avalanche of rhetorical shards,
your craven manipulations, the spot of burning
sun on the frozen doe. Everything catches fire
in the mangled frames of your irritability. You
don’t love me? I don’t know what you mean.
The hay is sweet – like me! –in these unfurled
taxonomies of pungent (but sensual) ridicule. You
don’t love me? I don’t know what you mean.
The murky planets sparkle in my ignorant hairdo.
Otohime 