There is a house that we are in
When you have your back turned
I have my back turned
Sometimes when you have your back turned I turn around
And look at your back
Sometimes when I turn around and look at your back
You turn around
And then we look at each other
I want to go where you go
And be loved by you there
Where we are filthy and continuous like real things
Where we fall to the bottom of our seventeenth century bodies
And roll against each other like barrels of silk
Where a lake dreams us up as its centre
And we turn wide circles with our faces
Where our eyes grow suicidally beautiful
With imperfect and exquisite plans
I know without needing a picture of it
This place where we are safe enough to repeat ourselves
I want to seem to you the very same thing that I seem to myself
And I want to seem to myself the very same thing that I am
No hunger to speak of
But to speak with
I tie a knot and for a while
I will not let it breathe