consider these solipses:

measured, carried steeples 

round a brined Mary 

suspended in the plasma 

of hapless, desperate donors 

centrifugal refugees

all unknown behind glass

this is a king's country:

a throne grown too small 

phagocyclic in the flesh

bedsores in the shape of sin 

and

lead of goblets held within

my crucifix is a bullet

made from ...

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'you never write me back in the cold and sober howling winds of daylight, where you're in danger of being seen. you never write me when your form cannot bleed into the formless, rooting in, burrowed deep into the ground, wrapping ahold of me tight, feeling rather than seeing -- much unlike this stark and starchy daylight living. You only write when we re both tasting death by the precarious and cu...

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