I shall withdraw and live

Glory to the doves, who are good for nothing

but sorrow. It piles onto me so, with haste and a flurry of wings

Pulling me towards tomorrow’s vile awakening

Before I have had the proper time to think, to dream, to learn what I should do

And I am doomed to relive each day the same

As though you are really dead, already long gone from me

No, as though you are old and dying

Of suddenly rampant disease: I would come to you then

And soak you with praise, I would love you with my ear pressed against your chest listening to nothing, nothing, nothing; And it would be my favourite song

In these dreams I see you waving me off with your hand erect, unbent, triumphant

Flickering like a dim candle to bright open sky. And your voice much the same:

Goodbye, ta-ra, farewell, I will see you sometime

I am good at nothing but my youth

I suffer from perilous boredom, everlasting nighttime, pious family gatherings, head-on collisions with terrified blowflies and moths, daily hot flushes, wine stains on library books

And always I am stalked by an aching deliberation

Nobody wants to tell me the truth, but you might, for you are full of the same stuff as I

A deep immeasurable sorrow, until the quiet becomes your body

But what is becoming of me now?

I wander through kitchenettes, through doors opposing doors, looking for that mid afternoon

Where you and I disappeared into ourselves and became whole

And out the other side there was dawn so delicious, so textured, with the smell of Spring

Dandelions were hanging with infinite supply, walls were unpainted, poems unwritten, and Heaven only described

And the tree was growing red leaves outside my window. My God, I was alive then

With no choice but to advance into a vast, continuous black-out

By feeling the grooves and edges of space, expanding with the horizon

Until all gaps were filled, until I awoke and found I was changed. My God, I shall withdraw and live