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Description
I.
Sometimes, up here, the city disappears, and fog horns sound like so many telephones ringing in the distance. The condensation on the window shows me an image through tiny glass beads and the sheets are cold again. We never untied the rope from the bedposts.

II.
Sirens cry like children in supermarkets wailing for their mothers. Or perhaps in eulogy.
The fumes grow thicker. The air grows thinner.

III.
Yesterday my head became a hollow shell, and I forgot that I had a body. Numbness is something that's hard to get used to, easy to get addicted to. I want the sound to go away. The light — to fade. An eternal eulogy. A candlelight vigil. I want this room to become a candlelight vigil. I want to be crucified on Saint Andrew's cross. To become percussive — beating.

IV.
The jazz of nighttime quiet,
the silence of sitting cold
at the foot of the bed.

Description
I.
Sometimes, up here, the city disappears, and fog horns sound like so many telephones ringing in the distance. The condensation on the window shows me an image through tiny glass beads and the sheets are cold again. We never untied the rope from the bedposts.

II.
Sirens cry like children in supermarkets wailing for their mothers. Or perhaps in eulogy.
The fumes grow thicker. The air grows thinner.

III.
Yesterday my head became a hollow shell, and I forgot that I had a body. Numbness is something that's hard to get used to, easy to get addicted to. I want the sound to go away. The light — to fade. An eternal eulogy. A candlelight vigil. I want this room to become a candlelight vigil. I want to be crucified on Saint Andrew's cross. To become percussive — beating.

IV.
The jazz of nighttime quiet,
the silence of sitting cold
at the foot of the bed.