The World Is Too Full to Talk About

I am quite sure you feel something very similar
I will dig up my humanity which tries always to slip into an unmarked
grave
I wish/ I knew how/ it would feel/ to be free
a sort of persistence against the external forces which try always to
deny your beauty and the beauty of others
Always one of you is below the line of human
I have arms and folding fat and bend forward with despondence and
radiate with love the way all human bodies do
my love grows old and dies in the locked room of my heart/my rage
festers and gives birth to cancer
* * * *
can I send you a message in a bottle that floats across the sea between
us?
I do not stand in a room opposite to yours and if my body is somehow
cut from your body I will dig a tunnel from my window to yours.
we have fallen under heavy waters, you and I, I see the marks of
drowning on the sides of your mouth, it is similar to mine. The skin
ferments for decades, it forgets what it means to stretch arms or fall
asleep.
a spirit is a metaphorical representation of a rush of blood to the head. I
no longer live with the possibility of forgetting, of detachment, of quiet
family life, and my blood hardly moves or moves too fast. I am quite
sure you feel something very similar.
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