… as if the thought were a preformed thing, a thing of shape and substance, that enters the mind and is then perceived in its entirety… not as something like color, but as being
…the heft of it…
and I would press this against us and maybe it would stay
I want to think you into existence. Think you into my bed. And make you stay there.
The heat sings. The cold sings. The honey sings / on my tongue. You are there. You are always there. Only I don't know who you are.
Who owns grief?
I hate you because you make everyone else, because you're so wrong and so right; I want
to jump up and slam something shut (some imperceptible imagined end).
I try to touch too many points at once; you see
I don't need to be found.
… as if the thought were there with me, a thing of shape and substance, dissatisfied and shrinking and not perceived in its entirety… as something like color … as something blankly significant
I need to think you into existence.
Only I don't know whose grief this is.
I don't know who you are.
And you would still be gone.
