When she kissed me, the nightingale sung,
its voice shaking over splinters of my youth,
piercing my tender and unprotected soul.
Always I am thrown asunder.
My heart yearns, I am happiest alone.
I prefer cats, chimney-stacks, bells, steeples.
I like rain. I like being rash. I like beauty.
My imagination is beautifully open at the neck.
It is made of flesh, the marrow of strange places.
Alone, I fall into ecstasy. Ekstasis.
To be driven out of the self, to be purified, holy.
Yes, that is what I want. Above all else.
I have chosen. I am volatile. In broad daylight,
I have no face but am like a crack of darkness.
How beautiful the voice! Like midnight, like
hollows, like forest, like white crescent of
moon, like seafoam, like midnight.
Silence drips, and I am a ship unanchored.
I remember childhood and hold firmly to
the rope of time. I do not let go, though
I know nightingales sing over my grave.