If days are different, darks are different too. Lying at length in my tube, smelling the grave we used to go to—dust or ashes, which do you desire, my dear ?—in the thin round nothing I have carved, I—more and more now—rest as if tumescent, like a snake, swollen, digesting everything that living’s swallowed, my rotting body rotting beneath its rotting clothing, my modest bones blushing at what they will reveal, and what the world would understand if it understood bonespeak, since the soft (...)