We had come here
each of us
so incomplete
so desperate—so
we screwed up the guts
to dance all night
wild and exhausted
angling and weaving
some semblance of soul
into existence—
this pretense
this shadow
in truth
was a stranger
pure miasma—
less constructive in fact
than the bluish
light which surrounded it
but we desired this—we craved
the matter
much more
than the fact
and we knew that
instinctively—
we didn't think—
we didn't
have the capacity
to realize—
the moment
we ceased
we would lose
completely the need to
stop feeling.
