for the Dutch poet Joop BerseeLungs struggle. My lungs are struggling against thisBastille, feeling small, the girl, the girl, the girl, thisavalanche in my soul, this single woman’s anguish.Comrade anguish does not let up. She mocks my properEnglish. I want someone to take care of me. I couldn’tplace you at first. Foe, foe, foe or Robinson Crusoe.Coldness is this desolate thing like plastic chairs in awaiting room. Champagne supernova I want to exploreyou. But broken people can’t fix broken people. That’sa figment of your imagination. Our souls are clothedin sleep now. Moonlight on our skin. We’re living different lives now. Different cities but there’s still anobedience there, a love that can fit into a museumlike the straight fate of the stars. I know the challengesof finding love on a long walk in a nature reserve on aWednesday afternoon. You were a kind man. The glareof light here is something flesh, something bone justflowing out of the sea like driftwood. It is dividingthe haunting. Dividing the trees into forest and borderof forest. I’m ashamed. I’m ashamed of my sexuality,am I girl or boy, man or woman, tragedy or dramaticartist (I’m trying to understand the speck of living with it).My identity, the men and women that I’ve loved. Trustme. I’ve been left. And, so, love and friendship I writeabout them in my poems. Dirt and grace and worship andpraise. I’m a bird pecked to death by other birds. A birdwho lives under a cold sky casting a net for freedom. I wantto be a miracle. I want to be a miracle. I’m afraid I’mfailing miserably at it. I think of the bones of glaciers andhow I can hear them from far away deep inside of me.Their frozen waterfall, their icy-mirth in my fist. I close my eyesand dream of glaciers, delicate Jonah in the whale.