, , , , , , , ,

– 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 –