The Ritual of Life

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I am the one who will die.
Come, contain this night
in your warm mouth,
try not to forget.

If you wish to speak,
press yourself to me, here,
at the wide open belly
and sear it with the
cold perfection of your horror.

I am the man who will die,
tomorrow, in a hundred years,
but only once like you.
I cannot bear the thought
of your death,

which I have seen in my sleep.
Your breasts flew like
leaves from your soul,
your skin slipped away
and I saw the mollusks
of a white and failed night.

Now I want to crystalize
this final gratuitous act
in a frenzy of hands
and lips without bodies.

I am the one who will die,
in a lifetime, a moment.
You flow through the holes in my plans
like a dark river of hair.

We will both forget
this certainty of being alone,
and this certainty of being here
contained in this night
of horror and snow.

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