foreword

I touched your waxy skin. It was empty because you had left,

and it was cold in the morning to my kiss.

You left many times,

down the uninterrupted street, into the earth’s open eye.

I strain towards you on my leash,

I lick my lip until it bleeds.

There is a horror. There is a pleasure, a relief. There is your body,

slowly put to bed. There are petals that the wind pushed

back into my skirt, as I drank the day,

and fell asleep on my own.

They have taken it back,

but I can still hear your machine through my wall.