The memories begin to blur.
Who said which thing, which terrible
epithet or storming out belongs
to which emotional tempest?
Named, my holes are immense:
it is clear I can neither see nor hear.
You are a hush against the trees,
the gap before the terror.
Like the Lacanian sublime I feel
mesmerized by the ends that you are:
I welcome you, beautiful heart,
into the swirling columns of my mouth,
the gathering greenness of my flood.