after E.M. Cioran a bit of blood this morning—
stop trying, dear. I have told you I am immunized to faith, still I believe in a trilogy of twins like us, in safekeeping, in that blank console, keeper of all our secrets, etc.
what is it— are you so full, are you so sound & how is it you hoard all that chaos & still move so thick through rooms taking with you the stasis of a kestrel in flight. if I held, if I blew you in my small hands, that sweet yellow flesh would slip through as the quetsch plum meat falls from its pit.
stop being so whole. be wary that I may grow tired of you, my sweet & your meeting god too frequently.
—still, come. glut this purged body. make it holy. the recipe needs, the mouth is calling for a little spit, a little salt & the hour’s hinge