separated by lungs

When I think there are these things: when it rains the women stay in the summer-house. About loving cells, the movement of cells, and the division of cells they hear the water beating on the tiles and streaming and then the general beating of circulation. You I think down the slopes of the roof. Fringes of rain surround about opening hands, and body, and feet. The summer-house, the water that runs down at its angles and shaking the skin that surrounds hands, body, and feet. Flows more strongly, it is as if springs hollow out. This is a shape, pebbles at the places where it reaches the ground. I’m sick. A shape of blood beating and cells dividing. At last light someone says it is like the sound of micturition, that she throwing my baby against plastic, but outside of this pace is shape. I feel transparent cannot wait any longer, and squat down. There is space between the hands. I try it again. Then some of them form a circle around her after the monster tore down the town left on the doorstep. There is space between the hands and space around the hands. Watch the labia expel the urine. In dull weather the women may shed hot tears, is this why smiling saying that in the sunshine there is space around the hands and spce in the room in our hands a rattle penetrates through closed windows? Someone arrives to visit we shake him shake him. there is space in the room that surrounds the shape of everyone’s vulva, used it to say that thanks to that nobody’s going to come in. and there is space, an uneven space, made by this pattern of bodies. The last splashes of sunlight in the sea I agree is a good place to shit. This space goes in and out of everyone’s bodies at the most luminous spot when, dazzled, they try to move away while I stayed in this morning. It was summer. Everyone with lungs breathes the space in and out as everyone is seized with vomiting. Then they begin to moan who did you think I would be. As everyone with lungs breathes the space between the hands in and out, colliding with the floating decaying carcase of an ass, at times the swell the wind turning flags and banners into danger as everyone with lungs breathes the space between the hands and they say that they shouted with all their might, in this fragmented city and the space around the hands in and out. I will wake up loving you and when I come home I will love you as everyone with lungs breathes the space between the hands and reveal sticky shapeless gleaming lumps of indescribable colour the space around the hands and the space of the room and the space of the tickets for the movies for tomorrow night, I will buy you shedding many tears, complaining that no sea-breeze got up to drive away the smell, supporting under the arms and groins, How connected we are with everyone. It’s like genitals I want to show you all these tiny parts piles of orange oranges ochre pineapples mandarins walnuts green and pink mangos the space of everyone that has just been inside of everyone mixing inside of everyone with nitrogen and oxygen and water vapor but I’m public public public. Holes in my memory sticking my hands in my jeans jackets how lovely and how doomed this connection of everyone with lungs. Wasps coming and going settle on the bare arms of the young women selling the bread, must be saved wrapped protected from age because I am poor and how am I to dress my flesh if I’m not poor, each morning we wait in our bed listening for the parrots and their chattering. Beloveds, the huntresses have dark maroon hats, and dogs. The trees branch over our roof, over our bed, and so realize that when I speak about how can I protect me from rotting, Dominique Aron says that the bird is still flying, the hare still running, the boar the deer the fox the wart-hog still afoot. When I speak of the parrots I speak of all that we wake to this morning, I think writing is desire not a form of it. beloveds, yours skins is a boundary separating yous from the rest of the women watching its approach shouting to those within for the windows to be closed and the rifles kept behind the windows. I speak of the separations that define this world and the separations that define us, it’s feeling into space, tucked into language, slipped into time, opened, felt, even as we like to press our skins against one another in the night. Her face is bare the undersides of her arms are a rosy colour sometimes she begins to sing because someone set them free, someone set them free, and they fly from one place to another, of course of course. Yet being here somehow, open loudly, to remind us of our morning and we welcome this even, stuck on our backs in bed, wings flapping, the women say that of her song nothing is to be heard but a continuous O. that is why this song evokes for them, small books which they say are feminaries, diversions from the pieces of the three-legged stool. Beloveds, yours skins are of all colors, are soft and wrinkled, blotchy and reddish, full of blemish and smooth. The persimmons are mysterious; they never get soft and by the lakeside there is an echo. As they stand there with an open book our world is small, these are junipers with their lonely commentary, the shadows brooding over the lake shift and beginning to shiver because of the vibrations of the voice.