(Crooked pictures with shadowed edges
stumble with a gait into the arms
of a lover falling out with empathy)
A nihilist believer with metamorphic fever
bestows you gifts of pain and understanding.
Walking on the lids of eyes of white and cold,
guttural utterances pay a prayer to ethos,
and held hands fondle distant stars.
Sleeping in the rain beside our demons,
soul carries gravity and sings what it trusts.
Would you tell the truth to helpless prey,
or lie and say that love is not for you today?
A brimming flask of boiling questions
is quaffed by closeted skeletons
who want to learn to live again.
(Hunger, hunger, pitch and thunder -
letter, letter, I know you better -
