TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER
an archive of pleasures, wounds, sublimations
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01.23.04, friday afternoon
I'm a fool. I dream about you, Niva, all the passing hours. I want the familiarity of your hooded blue eyes and your laughter and your speech patterns in the waking world . . . Not in my crystalline memory-house, which is cold and dark, for no sun shines through it and no other breath warms it but my own.
Oh, I know, patience: everything is Subject To Change. Let my poems guide me through this winter as I step from stone to stone, singing each word as if it was a spell. Let my Emma and my Sophia give me companionship, these fictive little girls whose story I must carefully, painstakingly, realize. Let me love J the way he should be loved, tenderly, without reproach, gracefully, so that we will not burn all to ashes.