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When paramours collapse into absences, I sleep with words.
​William Carlos Williams said in the ‘50s: The war is the first and
only thing in this world today, introducing the eulogies
​of a later poems collection. Appropriate and frightening
​in Brooklyn,
where sex has become an ambulance lurching
​through the blankets.
​Does desolation breed ghosts or do they follow it?
The heaven is clearest before the catastrophe, the sun dripping saltwater ​through the curtain’s peepholes.
I could’ve swallowed
your words,
​let them perish on my tongue, had they not burnt down
so quickly.