In talking about it, and writing about it
he placed his burdens
on display, the fashion of anguish.
Making the effort to extend and externalize,
begging to be objectified, handled,
caressed, placed on her night-table,
the last thing seen before sleep,
a dream totem. Small and easily held,
her hands all about him.
He was counting on the gravity of his suffering,
the exquisite curvature of his past and future,
drawing her deep into the well of his now,
like a pit, like euclidian trajectories bent
into the circles of inferno. He felt warped,
and warping, and needed someone to act
as the planet, the source of his distortion,
its cause become the effect,
a want into need like matter into energy.
In his behaviour he offered up his troubles
in a performance to imaginary gods
in the covert hope she'd arrive to reveal
that they were in fact alone and therefore only together
and therefore his troubles hers and hers his only,
and he pretended his performance of faith
only for the day when she
might come to break it, another faith hidden
and nesting within the hollow husk.
He imagined it might be like the spreading of
an infection, his burdens passed onto her
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