i am the whispering woman, a languid winter fragrance in limpid light. nevertheless, i have been equipped to love. i soften to you, elbow to elbow, in the old world of nicotine and this knuckled work.

the galaxy in compliance with the dust to become the ruby dawn. unbuttoned, blood-bright, this cold affluence in my last morning an amphoteric possession like the air born at last, the kindness it buried forever strange.

you thought that you had not been heard; you looked at me as something to wound and cut my wings from my bones. your brain is a pessimistic engine, beating to death difficult things and the promise that seeks to shine.

you are hazy, a lost star, a false light radiating shuttered spring. your violent gentleness goes with alphabetic precision; it sets fire to the colours of light, dances the empty beauty of roads. you radiate volatility from your hands.

you do not think that you want love.
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a serious suicide is an eye in a white face, an abyss in white arms; it is outside made tenderness, mercy deep and buried. oblivion; the sadness is ephemeral, an undulating appendage of splendour, vanishing like sorrow fleeting from an open casket's corpse.

i transcend sorrow, find vaster bliss like gentle, sensuous summer. i fall for serpentine collapse, a slithering explosion. this narrow room grasps its contents at last; the bed of faint blue and small clouds, the box of abandoned things: madman resistance and the smashing rumble of a fragmented body's body; the end of friendships a spasm to endure.

when the winter comes, the layer of ice awakes, surrounding my heart in this bitter room. the twilight becomes a beggar’s haven, this cold abundance a port of need. tonight, the weather is like courage; it is impermeable, sighing in waves. glossy, undulant, in the lukewarm light.

sleep gathers, digs a hole near weightlessness's nucleus. this burning somnolence gluts my heart.
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i turn to the gloom that passes
through a hail of conscience, a red
dubious androgynous effigy, staring at
mute bruises in the confrontations of void.

my insomnia dawns and wanders, starving.
i am precisely like this bleak richness, like
the mother of adjectives, something injured.

i am on a lost linguistic course, like
a foreigner in the city. i fear the afterlife
of the night; restlessness and autumn dusk
shake and roughly besiege my heart.

i consider the gladiator and the ether man;
they are gone and it is strange and permanent.
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