Since you ask, most
days I cannot remember.
I walk in my clothing, unmarked by that
voyage.
Then the most unnameable lust returns.
Even then I have
nothing against life.
I know well the grass blades you
mention
the furniture you have placed under the sun.
But
suicides have a special language.
Like carpenters they want to know
which tools.
They never ask why build.
Twice
I have so simply declared myself
have possessed the enemy, eaten the
enemy,
have taken on his craft, his magic.
In this way, heavy
and thoughtful,
warmer than oil or water,
I have rested,
drooling at the mouth-hole.
I did not think of my body at needle
point.
Even the cornea and the leftover urine were
gone.
Suicides have already betrayed the body.
Still-born, they
don't always die,
but dazzled, they can't forget a drug so
sweet
that even children would look on and smile.
To thrust all
that life under your tongue! --
that, all by itself, becomes a
passion.
Death's a sad bone; bruised, you'd sya,
and yet she
waits for me, year and year,
to so delicately undo an old
would,
to empty my breath from its bad prison.
Balanced there,
suicides sometimes meet,
raging at the fruit, a pumped-up
moon,
leaving the bread they mistook for a kiss,
leaving the
page of a book carelessly open,
something unsaid, the phone off the
hook
and the look, whatever it was, an infection.