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Poem
I should very much like to be torn in two by you One half of me to head north and the other to begin digging One half to gut the fish and fry them for dinner The other to sing, it’s something sweet, and also something not-so-sweet
One half of me to stay in One to make the cuts and the other to count them One half of me all body-painted red One on each coast, one on every corner Oh if the mes subdivided Oh if they slipped through the knotty pine floorboards I should very much like to be torn in two by you
A twin-engine plane The point is that we do have this little umbrella, we have its point and the shade it provides, and if we haven’t much else, well, the sun is out today and things are always washing up. The ocean’s main aim is to move itself around. Once we were blessed with the shallow space inside a shell. The nights are cold and you are up against me. The complication stems from continuance: that after this there is something else, and something else, with no space in between. There is no other place to step to. We will sit in your furniture if you pay us. Or if you prefer we will beat it with chains.
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