Weed, Thistle, Flower
I want to love you wildly. I don’t want words, but inarticulate cries, meaningless, from the bottom of my most primitive being, that flow from my belly like honey. A piercing joy, that leaves me empty, conquered, silenced.
I put the cards with secret numbers, ¶ listening to toilets flush; ¶ agents cut the wires and test my heartbeat listen for sanity ¶ or cheer or love, and finding none, ¶ satisfied, they leave; ¶ flick, flick, flick, I stand before the wood ¶ and my soul faints on a floor crawling with bugs and beyond the wood is a window ¶ with sounds, grass, walking, towers, dogs, ¶ but here I stand and here I stay, ¶ sending cards noted with my own ending; and I am sick with caring; go out, everything, and send fire.