So help me, Love, you and I, Paper into pulp, and our words last as ashes to cool the sun. The pen lasts in stories by the fire, the ink bubbles, the word is cremated and spreads dumbly as in our lungs.
I wanted to speak it now. And how the explosive sound of the lungs, collapsing as they give back air -- we have had that energy, burning, we have been at the throat of the world. We have had a lifetime.