She knew more about me than let us say.
Most difficult, the American, she said.
Said a requiem is quite heavy, very dull and
These violet people in gentle expenditures!
Impossible to translate one:
Mass, and the day of masses.
Yet how was it to be ease for her, feeling
nothing of my spirit, knowing less of her own.
She knew only the visits to the tombs in me.
This pilgrimage she bled into her principles.
Higher, deeper than my closed eye.
Sees difficulty more in her “church” blood
Than in her cycle. & she started
on the birthcontrol pills again.
Some terrible romance of the flesh wedges us.
Here she was everything to me, after the crude
Cramming of Nothing; but now
I want isolation. I told her what.
She said, then isolate motherfucker