The Gaping O

 

I am an absence of air.

Paris writes me telling me not to come.

Many things have fallen

into the gaping O of love.

 

My sick senses stretch like a violin note over

a ghostly concert hall.

Halls are caverns.

I have a hall inside my city

And he waits there.

He has a bomb wrapped like a gift,

I the suction of quicksand.

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