I, committed writer
of your body,
a scroll of eros;
you, casual reader
of my face,
a map of solitude.
We screw each other
less in reading
than in writing.
Breadcrumb Scabs, #17
A Room of My Own: You're Not/Knowing
-
*Against the Drowning Noise of Other Words*, CXIII: "preparing for
settlement in Gaza"
no visible trace
of the walls of my house
of the living room
chairs,...