152 When I look at you, afar, who feels the prick of my eyes, Who traces every fracture of my lines, but stays apart; When you look at me, who, on your canvas, breaks up the lines To get as close to you as you would let me with your brush; When your face is squirming in the almost comic grimace Of choking; when my voice is burning through the crack of lips In the earthquake of my mouth, in drying pieces of breath -- I know then: yours is water, mine is air -- the world is split.


Confined Verse
Collected Poems