It’s true
Antonin
Artaud told us
Life
consists of burning up questions
Sharp
sensations in our limbs
Stilettos
of ice lodged in our throats
Night’s
blurred voice
Scraping
against the earth
A
low mutter over cold stones
A
thin untethered scuff—a moonlit scrap
All
tangled up in the toils of desire
Igniting
tiny constellations in our eyes
A
word like what?
Just
like a naked foot
Rippling
the black water of our love
A
shivering pane of star-swerved sound
Immoderate
ecstasy or anger
The
whole goddamn milky way
Hurling
over us
