A world of fragment is my private life.
A world, though, is just the world to the public.
If my life is a field then it’s a dirt field.
Regular, and bearing all dragged through it.
Marked, is what I mean. The dirt harrowing.

In one moment the man curls himself into a ball,
a pink ball, like fire like something burning,
as the woman turns from him, all night,
into an eternal night, blazing, these bad lovers do this—an
ambiguous call comes up from the distance—no one
listens, anymore.