Last night, the wind
urged the trembling
naked trees forget
this two-faced January.
Standing in air
too warm to shiver, too
cool not to mention,
the marvelous magic
of your dense skin.
But I feel nothing:
back into the burning
book where I took pictures,
from inside the skeleton,
this building disguises.
Through your window
I made faces--smile,
grimace, doubting smirk--
that might persuade you
to summon up
a handy man, big bad.
A wolf is always
waiting.
"This journal is not a mere literary diversion. The further I progress, reducing to order what my past life suggests, and the more I persist in the rigor of composition--of the chapters, of the sentences, of the book itself--the more do I feel myself hardening in my will to utilize, for virtuous ends, my former hardships. I feel their power." --Jean Genet
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