Even at the beginning, you were wistful, despairing. I wonder if you knew —as you held me— that I was already slipping through your fingers. Was I not writing obituaries? I was a vanishing thing. That was my singularity. If I mythologize myself it is only because I cannot bear to be real.

I let the singularities swallow me because death was beckoning Madonna of the many annihilations the October supermoons were harvesting me Madonna the mythologist Madonna of the mutating voids I was metamorphosis