Since you ask， most days I cannot remember.

    I walk in my clothing， unmarked by that voyage.

    Then the almost unnameable lust¹ returns.

    Even then I have nothing against life.

    I know well the grass blades you mention，

    the furniture you have placed under the sun.

    But suicides have a special language.

    Like carpenters they want to know which tools.

    They never ask why build.

    Twice I have so simply declared myself，

    have possessed² the enemy， eaten the enemy，

    have taken on his craft， his magic.

    In this way， heavy and thoughtful，

    warmer than oil or water，

    I have rested， drooling at the mouth-hole.

    I did not think of my body at needle point.

    Even the cornea and the leftover³ urine were gone.

    Suicides have already betrayed the body.

    Still-born， they don't always die，

    but dazzled， they can't forget a drug so sweet

    that even children would look on and smile.

    To thrust all that life under your tongue！——

    that， all by itself， becomes a passion.

    Death's a sad Bone； bruised⁴， you'd say，

    and yet she waits for me， year after year，

    to so delicately undo⁵ an old wound，

    to empty my breath from its bad prison.

    Balanced there， suicides sometimes meet，

    raging at the fruit， a pumped-up moon，

    leaving the bread they mistook for a kiss，

    leaving the page of the book carelessly open，

    something unsaid， the phone off the hook

    and the love， whatever it was， an infection.