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It is a night of angels, of dark water, of urgency, of conflagrated shimmer, of lustrous wet, of smoke, of fast emotion, of whimsy, of good canine, of palimpsests, of hot glossolalia– the body goes opaque, the heart a glaucous organ

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Tapping the edge of a vodka glass on the table, it all depends on the solidity of objects again. Not knowing how to fold limbs, where to put hands, how to mind the circle. Circular, we exchange passwords to be replaced weekly. The moment buckles under the pressure of my reticence

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Unshod in the clutches of love’s languor, you often manage to say the wrong thing. But sometimes, you pin it with exactitude. Today you tell me that when dust particles from decaying books enter the reader’s respiratory system, the body is reconstituted by the archive. I am in bed when you send this email, but the absence of dust in the exchange refuses relation. The archive stays on your screen and the dust comes only from the dead skin in my sheets – your sheets. I was startled by the intensity of my desire. Jarring, the sudden closeness of your wrists, the body’s closed chambers liquid and uneven

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But the experiment fails – the surface of the planet goes still. You find another archivist and stop coming to my chamber, my heart, lit by all these dying fluorescents. I haunt this celestial edit, wingwracking in the night

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