I'm writing to you from in-between the last page,
it's descendant and the spine, of the world
a typist creates, and a writer imagines in his soul,
where the former has an unknown bearing and suffers
no toll.

I displaced your thoughts not because I could,
nor because I understood, I did it because I am reckless,
I did it in poetry's place, because to call you in prose
could never satiate what the composer proposed.

Madman before mad men, pitchforks and fires in angry homes,
where they begin, before their machines of sin,
I am the well of the unwell, I fought for, before, and tore,
your kin.

Candles, courting beauty as her dress trails the heaven
before the floor, grace in a body, undressed for us mad men.