Again and again, I want this life to return, like
a haunting. Until my bones can recite antonyms
in the night. What is the shadow of breath? What
is the inverse of moonlight? What is the antithesis
of the hours you wedged under one leg of the wobbly
earth? The gate to dawn, so long shut, is creaking.
Every mistake wants to be resurrected. Repeated.
Consequences wait at the old places. The traps have
bared their primal teeth. The body knows where
it should burn, where it should wound. Touch is
habit. Desire is the prophesy that can be read only
in a mirror. What is normal if dystopia is an obvious
palindrome? What would be, if not this life? What
do we do with love that is not the opposite of death?