20 may. 2012


Pain is a loud party next door
And the ceaseless sound of the buzzer,
Sleeping not in your own bed
And finding a stranger in (br)others.

Beauty is crying when all you can think about
Is "Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird"
And knowing thirteen is the number
(Has always been)
Of ways you could choose not to hold him
(The general him, even the Father Him)
Without ever escaping your prayer
Without ever escaping your need
Without ever truly believing
That you can survive without him.

Truth is the intimation
That even in his arms clasped tight,
You would still be lonesome.
You would still breathe night.