140 Our blood is more alike than of a father and a daughter, Our ways more similar than of a brother and a sister, As if I give you birth each night, and suckle you each morning To make our urge of merging more forbidden than an incest. We almost fail to keep ourselves from stuttering and stumbling, We watch our flesh with eyes of the beholder in the thriller, As if we leave our bodies to survive within each other To make our blinding urge to blend more blamable than stealing. But when you are away from me, to save us from conviction, We are the ghosts inside each thing, because each thing is hollow, As if, the world aside, we are imprisoned in the mirror To make our every day apart more punished than a murder.


Confined Verse
Collected Poems