, , , ,

– scratch, as gasp, as
in a line in the air

like this one beat. Tight-
breath, the sought-for-thing

coming. Splinter-
tip, talking is despair;

tearing of tongues. Child
making “das Crying”

noise. I come, following her
lisp. Brain-cased,

cysts and foggy-
mind. What does a daughter

of Eve do when all lust
crumbles? Plague-faced

with cracks. Vapor-
hour mud. Low water

yet Woolf held
herself down. “I can’t even

write this/ properly.
I can’t read.”
I drop

DJ’s needle on scratch-
ruined records

and a drunk’s beat; I write
words that no one

will dance to. One more
dazed static-skull fop,

gag me on Virginia’s
sinews, whipcords –