I cannot find the place where I begin.
With its congress of parts and heresies
In the midst of all this burning flesh.
Come here and taste my skin.
Does it not taste of ash?
Is it not the taste of the city from which you run?
You are trembling.
Oh to be near anyone’s trembling.
We are a consort to an expectation
Or an explanation of ruins.
Or attendants to discomforting laughter.
Or the gasps of insistent lungs.
There is bitterness on the lips
Expecting the loss of desire; cold stairs.
sometimes we even crawl
between points of a memorialized
Hunger, determining distances
incessantly talking to ourselves