find the other place. think water. what

is writing but living, think-

it hurts me more than it hurts

you to see a dog in pain. and do you think

that you are the tallest man in my life,

casually dropping hints of, for life and for death/i

don't always eat breakfast, but when i do,

i try to be tender and pretend that my chest is bare.

i can't believe that those tables and wood

could care, so when i eat breakfast

i think, water. i think the fuzz of tape, think

the space between inner thigh and moist, you, what

is living but writing- or, eating instant oatmeal

from plastic coated cloth- so heavy as

to become the pattern of fern

in frozen chronicle of water, to drift

as heaviest light as if into choice.

think blood on wind as painting, think wolf in the distance, if only

to sex you, reader, closer

to the other space.