A long time ago you had a puerile, human shape
which I'm sure you possess still,
yet from this village your suffocating shadow
has transformed from twig to colossus

It is not as if I pay close attention;
it is always winter here
and I just labor dredging slime
out of your enormous, eroding house
yet find myself sinking
into this mania I construct backhandedly
(while on my healthy, happy days
my left hand needs a hobby or two)

I no longer have your severed limbs
mounted as a fragrant altar, rotting
instead I just own pieces of this puzzle to put together,
which look less and less like pieces
and more like portions of dirt
that melt everytime I touch them

these pieces of filth, of you, no longer correspond
but I use them, sometimes
when your ghost is too loud to silence it,
when I see into its eyes, medusa-like
and fall vertiginously back into this assembly,
into the nigh-orgasmic tradition of inviting your hyperuranic dopplegänger
back into this dwelling

I haven't had you for the last million years
and tomorrow I must awake and pretend like I'm not poisoning myself
like these years between you and I are nothing but a prelude
like I'll see your inequivocal gaze turning a street
and I the other

like these hours aren't married to your corpse
waiting for it to come and take me
to your blasphemous cradle