The world consists of facts—not things.
What draws me to this statement?
“Fact,” a word, a ball of frozen vapors, shards on the pavement.
Is this “bed” of “rumpled” “sheets” a fact?
Mere things detritus of fact?
Because I love you, I turn in my sheets.
This is a fact.
I writhe in my nonsleep, in my nondreams sweat.
Facts are sure
Not innocent things.
I will never get behind that wall it will never breech and open to me.
Fact:
A sweaty glass of melting ice drips a circle on the table.
Fact:
The stone tossed from the bridge makes a series of circles that are not round.
Everything diminishes from the center.
Just facts.
The blue of midnight, the midnight blue falls so eloquently, so wordlessly lovely against your skin, against the confluence of your hair about your neck…
I do not think that is a fact, although I know it is true.
This is a fact.
Where have you gone Ludwig?
What games are you playing now?
