(Untitled 3. From echolocation).
Bury me in a frozen lake, saltless and safe, some day lifted to the eyes of a new person, telling her what to call me as she probes me.

Drop me on coral entangled, hair streaming in the current, rocking on a seabed of pistons.

Leave me in the garden slope, a dial tilted to the stars, on the orange trail as they roll to rot.

Bury me bare as a bird obvious on a tree in autumn.

Was desire meant to be saved, kept alive, unanswered? But this is a deathfuck, different, the more I dismember, the more I want.

And you my queen of honeylips, the only one who ever knew how to make a ghost of me, play me a new song, recall me.

The nagman brings a daily death, squeezes my breasts, a clay clasp cooler than your hand, gives me fingers and teeth.

The gardener of dust is using my frame as a mould for the shape of future dust. This is how the dust will grow leaves and the pencilling will fall to bits.