i follow you
from body to body
with more and more
to your echo
“weiss was an amateur”
and gather up the pile of flaccid braids –
a mound beside your hollow remains.
i wonder how different you’ll seem
the next time i’m somehow convinced i haven’t just been fucking an illusion
longer rope, same knots.
perhaps a tan and less social anxiety.
perhaps a suppler
mind, body or heart.
ehrich weiss was an amateur was an amateur was an amateur was an amateur was an amateur was an amateur
but he caught you
fruitlessly but faithfully, they say,
by never giving up his fame
and always letting you go.
it was called Metamorphosis
and i will never learn it.
i’m not ready for another unsuspected blow
to solar plexus.
i’m hobbled and i’m tired of fighting.
maybe it’ll take your heart attack
for me to finally catch you for good.
i’m afraid there’s not enough rope
to hold either of us, otherweiss,
and i tried all the knots.
the trick is simply