My swirling wants. Your frozen lips.
The grammar turned and attacked me.
Themes, written under duress.
Emptiness of the nations.
They gave me a drug that slowed the healing of wounds.
I want you to see this before I leave:
A red plant in a cemetery of plastic wreaths.
A last attempt: the language is a
dialect called metaphor.
To do something very common, in my own way.