There’s too much space
Between our skins.
I’m not sure the sun
You see is the sun I see.
The roses in my garden
Bloom. The table is set,
But not for you.
There’s a fine darkness
Beyond bitterness
That’s hard to get to.
I look at my page. Have you?
What is a page anyway?
It is a backwards light.
It takes and takes.
It is not, therefore,
Like water. It is a page.
My friend, goodbye.
You were so kind
To acknowledge my name.
But I have to sleep
With my veins
In my arms. My heart
Has a sound all its own.
I’m going outside now
To walk among my roses.
They bloom. They are red
and pink. They like me,
I think.
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