What separates self from the flutterof longing?

as if I am an instrument he is tuning,or as if (adjusting his mask) he is adjusting an instrumentto look through me—

Our Lady! is dizzy,ill, among sparrows

I lost him so uncontrollably, you understand

Literature is falling away.

The sky is measled with stars.There was a soul, a god, too, that I meantto concoct.

God, throw me a line.The drowning takes too long.

People say you forget about death, but you don't.

Cecilia plays a harp and sings "The angels are bitches,the gods are sluts—