The moon halved, to smash the round of its skin further into the matter, into the matter, unillumined—but for a flame somewhere, unsure and plucked upon a wick, rolling its head on a faint neck of wick. And but for that there wouldn’t be broad moon at all. The moon halved, and in pain, proved its innards to be a mass of black hair, dropping with oil—indistinct still, it issued, sated and confused, issued in a wealth from the split—it hung, still stuck at the inner walls. Your head splits in the bath and you wrestle with the bathwater—struggle your arms in a little expanse of quick-cooling bathwater. There’s the sink, it storms and storms, kindled incense mingles over it; there’s sink and drain, the candle’s thrust in it—the flame eases up into the mirror’s bounds. The light, sole, sole and lone. Your body flattens in the shy of light—unhood yourself then from the waterwalls. Arch your bottom out to start—let it drop in the steam and fume of the dark.
-2001
