I'm drunk again, and carrying on.
This afternoon while eating
eggs and toast around the corner
I saw my twin.

What we had was a farmhouse,
and that's all. You made butter
while I chopped wood. Or you
ground the axe while I planted flowers.

What could I have said? I don't know you
but I knew you. A thousand years ago,
before we were born.
I am not insane.

I dug into the bed,
with a spade, with my hands,
to trench our bulbs
in dirt and bits of worm.

I came to Boston because I was sensible,
because I needed to be alone.
This winter, this coffee shop,
I asked for death.

Our cows were overflowing.
Work was too easy.
Nestled in the womb of pre-dawn
we slept like one person.

I wanted to tell her,
I've learned too much.
I'd forgotten what my sorrow
looks like, how it smiles.

We had aprons,
and flour all over my hands,
all over your skin.
There was time for food.

I thought that I had not
flourished enough.
But in her eyes, like wounds, I saw
that I had been ravished too little.