There’s one
There’s two
There’s three
Of me
In this triplicity
I count aphorisms
When it’s difficult
To speak . .
There’s one
There’s two
There’s three
Of me
In this triplicity
I count aphorisms
When it’s difficult
To speak . .
A writer sometimes retains only those poems that find no place. A strange ineffable experience of the mind, its enormous success of self love
Almost fierce
Cannot be
Until Am is Am
My very veins
In its desire to be
Hang over my feet
Like lousy flowers
That love just like me

The eternities of a second
My whole life to solve
Pitiless searches for a body
To grow old with
Nameless sensations
Such a cruel thing
To miss the dead
With this immeasurable clarity
Like gravid drops of hope
Spinning over itself
Tirelessly, till we learn
How to love, again . .

We live in identical rooms
We blankly wake, we greet
From one balcony to another
Successively for a hundred years
Between now and tomorrow
We will spend the rest of our days
Growing gardens out of angry stars

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