Is it too late for a Stranger’s remembrance-
Is it perharps too early?  – Emily Dickinson.

There’s a trace
something in my chest, leaks
so strong you can smell it in the streets
a blossom of fire
as in sleep, suddenly moves
there’s a spur of flesh in your absence
nailed into nothing there’s a spur
a carnal trace
constricted as in some spray paint
not to be exposed to direct sunlight
but laid in a refrigerated body box
a trace so alive, so luminous
it blooms along my frozen nerves and lips
your imprint
a poison of unknown name
that perforates and burns, say, after use
my salty throat and uterine walls-
there’s a spur of flesh
rising from underneath the skin of loss
outliving cold veins and still blood
there’s a trace
piercing the balloon of my amnesia
gunshots holes in my funeral dress
now, fling open your worn blue coat
don’t stay chaste with me, love
It’s not you, it‘s me, god chastised
for living without you was lying in a coffin
but now, sweet defiant, look
there’s a carnal trace in everything
blood colored suns on the road to nothingness
wooly cells, red diodes, lustrous anomalies
that leads me to your cummy hands
as you knead my heart and eat it like bread
on your way to some peep show cabin-
Oh my weird stone, my man, my absolutist
there’s a rain
there’s a rain of flesh in this noisy space
in every interference there’s a trace
there’s a spur of flesh in your absence
that stands naked in the rearview mirror
and delivers me from heaven.