You wrote "my souls,
three of them
have not spoken
in years."
Secretly,
they've learned
to live on wine
and beer
and a few
well-memorized
excuses.
I read
your book,
about forgetting,
splitting, that life
is burning
inside a space
no bigger than
your skull.
You said,
"a guest in a room,
a fatherless boy,
the wounded luxery
of a corpse
are masterpieces."
Your third voice,
the one that wrote:
"my souls
are yours"
told me where
to find you.
