Rfh

Perhaps because I have no sense, nor character, nothing deeper is established nor disestablished, no webs are weaved or untangled with wit or metaphor, the body desires nothing, but the ultimate give-up - waiting for sleep, the waiting, waiting, what will give up of what of which is established - when there is sleep, the poison grips nightshade, there is no falter of words, but a calm lilt of head, a kilter, tilting thoughts to bed. Watch unyielding yielding no: there is no space/time. 0 movement- I am of the black arts, a lit candle well-off into the evening, there are no winds to carry me Eastward, not to the Black Forest, nor where we lost our lives. There is nothing here, an empty pitcher of milk, the white porcelain already shattered and loved back on the table, this image flickers and I can feel the loss of heat in all limbs, only the living crave blood. Of nothing good, there is nothing speculative, it is dismissed and unscrutinized, it remains perfect in its imperfection, a round palpable solid grasped in the hand of Adam. There is no fear, but fear of waste,