lungs in the freezer

i stay by myself in the perfection of solitude,
the soundless-ness of being in the world without
another soul to penetrate that thin blanket
of lonely peace--
if only life could be like this,
like the mind of this dream
piercing us through and through.

in my lonely fever i shiver,
wishing for another possible sack
of flesh to warm my own,
but then i remember
flesh speaks and thinks and hates
so naturally i leave it.
i leave it all.

the pains of breathing and living
drown me with their potency
but i reject them with cold fevers
and the impersonal sort of bliss that
follows you in the evenings until morning
flashes its ugly teeth
until rain spits and snarls
upon peaceful schools of people.

nature wants us dead, every one.

and by god i used to pray before
i let sleep take me each night,
and i swear i'd never been so alone
as when i talked to the sky like a
breathing friend.

it ignored my bursts of begging
but it did send me to sleep
so quick it felt like dying.
i stopped lusting for the care of
an open womb of sky,
of the empty noise of night.

silently breathing in enough
solitude to haunt the oldest of graves,
i took it upon myself to join them
in the quiet truth of not existing.

i put myself to sleep,
a sleep deeper than any god
could grant.

numbest of all.