It’s true I never write, but I would gladly die with you.

Gladly lower myself down alone with you into the enormous mouth

that waits, beyond youth, beyond every instant of ecstasy, remember:

before battle we would do each other’s makeup, comb each other’s

                   hair out

saying we are unconquerable, we are terrible and splendid—

the mouth waiting, patiently waiting. And I will meet you there

                   again

beyond bleeding thorns, the endless dilation, the fire that alters

                   nothing;

I am there already past snowy clouds, balding moss, dim

swarm of stars even we can step over, it is easier this time, I promise—

I am already waiting in your personal heaven, here is my hand,

I will help you across. I would gladly die with you still,

although I never write  

from this gray institution. See

they are so busy trying to cure me, 

I’m condemned—sorry, I have been given the job

of vacuuming the desert forever, well, no more than eight hours 

                   a day.

And it’s really just about a thousand miles of cafeteria; 

a large one in any event. With its miniature plastic knives,

its tuna salad and Saran-Wrapped genitalia will somebody 

                   please

get me out of here, sorry. I am happy to say that

every method, massive pharmaceuticals, art therapy 

and edifying films as well as others I would prefer

not to mention—I mean, every single technique

known to the mouth—sorry!—to our most kindly

compassionate science is being employed 

to restore me to normal well-being 

and cheerful stability. I go on vacuuming

toward a small diamond light burning 

off in the distance. Remember 

me. Do you

remember me?   

In the night’s windowless darkness

when I am lying cold and numb 

and no one’s fiddling with the lock, or 

shining flashlights in my eyes,

although I never write, secretly 

I long to die with you,

does that count