It has been a long journey,
Into and through the tunnel of red light,

Memories, mice, dust, soil, raw flesh and long dead stories have hung from its walls;

The ancient scent of the pubis-god, built of crushed petals and ripe flesh has led me,
Sometimes to fog smeared dawns of cobwebs and muslin (fragile to touch),

to blood evenings exploding on the mouth of the sky taking pieces of my soul

I am neither,
Near or far,
Nor closer to death
Or electric in the nerves;

I am  floating as sand falling from used boots,
Between your breasts,

In an odd limbo land as death darkness and feral nights emanate from your nostrils,
I will find the frangipani flower shaped and colored like your skin,

Addresses to past lives, pockets of tattered selves, dust of jagged moments and other such fallible old suitcase junk,
Addresses to the doors lying on my scalped backbone will be
Shining and visible on the whorls and veins of the flower.

Is it your hand I see in the mud,
Dragging on my shoes,
Are you still growing your roots of my feet,

Come, let us sit in the blue room and peel our eyes out,
See what we have seen when not conscious to each other,
ravage sadness,
Like tasty moss,
Gnaw grainy knotted green sadness, like moss.

The moss on my windowpane I have flowered for you to come and chew with me in the soft darkness of every morning.

I know you are at the door now.

The doorknob begins to melt like the newspaper walls of change and movement between us.

You are at the door now.