Love and anger are the axis upon which my life,

perhaps all life, spins.  in me now they spin until

one is unrecognizable from the other: the love is

like scorn; the anger is as delicate as madness and feels like love.  To touch me is to touch a pale winter sun; you will not know if you have been burned or frozen.  The scars all look the same.  There are scars in her eyes.  She looked at me

with love and felt the cold fire.  She looked at

me, again and again looked at me, finally understanding the delicacy of my anger but it was too late and she left.  She left me a photograph of the scars in her eyes which stare down where I sit and follow me as I walk through the room. 

She left me a photograph of her delicate madness.

I pinned it on the wall above the desk where I sit.  Below it I placed a photograph of myself, hair

stuck out and tie crooked, mouth slightly open showing my missing tooth but my eyes are soft,

softer than they've been for a long time, maybe softer than they will ever be again.  I can take photos like a pretty boy, like a star, glib looks and glib tongue; shave me and dress me up you can

take me anywhere but I probably won't want to

go.  I want to sit here stared at by the photographs that I love, thinking about this life of mine feeling consumed by the cold fire knowing my eyes will never be soft again. Knowing there are scars on my

eyes also.  A friend asked how I could work in this small room.  I said how can I not work here.