vi.

Let’s go two-by-two to the musical suite.

He looks like a dream- he is probably as much.

Still, I sit at the table and couldn’t possibly eat,

starving but full on the promise of touch.

And I don’t want to write-

you write it yourself-

and I won’t till all my last instincts are culled

(to survive), and I’m sick of being difficult,

and I’m finally dead, then I’ll see you in Hell(f).