speak like the quiet, you nerves! but that's no way to approach it, trying to cut myself to their corners. no, i burn up a tremor in my heart, i am raising elegant strings, i am howling and ticking fault lines. i come to say what has or will–but retreat! the familiarity of the aversion, the gull bones, the hung minuteness: would i sooner make for a lion song.

but there is process, the skin always thinking, (the heart!) open up and burst, with tears that take your being.

i think when we cry and cry, when we let go, that is when we keep the most. so the heart is always open and levelling worlds, that love that split you down, naked and burgeoning.