Moon to my earth come from some other space
so totally white at our evening meal,
wearing a coat that will not last the year,
I love you completely as salt.
Tell the one about an hour before darkness
in your room above the Bangcock Massage Parlour.
The one where pain rises with the bread,
filling you with its yeasting smell.
It's dark.
You exhale a fist of memory.
I love you like weathering wood
in a room of empty pianos.
When you return to something you love,
it's already beyond repair.
You wear it broken.
James L. White
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I became insane, with long intervals of horrible sanity
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