I sink your fragrance in me,
To remember leaning only into darkness.
The scent will now mourn my skin to shed you but I don’t know any better.
It beats your whistle in lanes I have walked by,
Like stray garden snail, you’d walk by me cooling the flails,
Without your films,
There is silence in my days,
And eyes away from being a poet.
I no longer need you, but I occasionally think of you rested in people I share my thoughts with.
If you still think of me, I’d like you to string me in your voice when you speak of the beat poets and that will be my only request.

I am in my cine city now,
have done worse to myself.
Death in my bedroom.

There is rest I cannot deny,
All want me to sleep,
All want me to take my medicines,
All want me to stay out of sickness,
All want me my wellness,
And I politely give them my smile.
(I have nothing more of myself to offer).
My fever comes with tenderness to ask me to sleep,
My cheeks have lost its natural flush,
My eyes drain my faith,
And I lie with quietness of the light on me.

With my lonely illness and its lonely care for me,
I do lonelier things.