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

From above, you looked small as an afterthought, something lightly brushed in.

You'd been dying so long nothing looked like itself:

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—

You're the head injury I've always longed for,what I call thinking.

In this waythe changes I want I don't haveto suffer.

Who has waited longest for this kiss?