Dear Puer,
freeze dried silver fish stack of bones. candy weighing both of my pockets down.
separate and vibrant. my cosmic egg, i stretch myself open to fit.
from the Other monstrous side, i wait, slug of blood,
veil of tears, you know the one, Puella, the girl we cannot get over
the girl with the green ribbon
crust of buttermilk laboring eye
heaven of earth that
same labor we rivet into, the same we go out in— that is, the labor of death—
and i miss your precious heart, and miss, and miss i
admit i'm meant for language
(as) describable as it is