Thread Words (Sorrow the Skin Can Take)

“Poetry slips into dreams

                        like a diver who’s dead

                        in the eyes of God.”

                        —Roberto Bolaño, “Resurrection”




The amount of sorrow the skin can take

Is proportionate to the size of the heart

Beating beneath it


The crow realizes

It can fly directly into the heart

Of morning

When it comes.

For some of us, tho, it

Burns fingers

In the sun,

Leaves ivory teeth to gleam.


The thread is followed

And the girl appears:

Black of hair,


I only copy her down,

On the walls


Stained red-napkin words

On every bar top I come across—

The new stations of my new loss.




And I believed it, every word,

My every regret there to find me





Blood comes from under skin,

Made in a heart buried beneath it—

So is love,

Followed like a thread.




The dark recesses of who we thought we were,

When it was there for us—

Under skin




“Her leopard legs would wrap around my waist

and she’d sink her head into my chest, searching for my

nipples or my heartbeat.

This is the part of you I want to suck, she said to me

one night.

What, Lupe? Your heart.”

—Roberto Bolaño, “Lupe”


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