On your bed linen domain

still soft in lavender scent

damp cloth, hence

picked up before ripe

I tried in vain to enter

Right behind our books there's mold

and the faint scent of words

in our dead tongues

Our hallway so straight and narrow

(just like all others)

as someone else's nights

(so much like ours)

Dreaming of sunny winters

leaving wide open doors

waiting for years to come

It all seemed true to us.

You rose

John the baptist

from your own

pool of bowels.

Your spite for consonants

is my love of vowels

of the habits i left

could not keep my arms

tucked in the pocket of my vest

of the night so tall

waking up in barns

thought of God in parts

of the troubled keymaker

only the lampshade left

body parts kept