By CRISOSTO APACHE A Letter Yet Written after Ezra Pound 144 Balm: I exist inside my house while I caress my cold skin and mimic circular motions which lure the eyes away, attracting the tickle wind and the sin for your fingers. You part my tuft of hair and lay a strand of vibrant coral. Mirror: I exist inside my house and appear in plated glass. Time and time again I fear the act of contact that hinders my attraction. My brush stroke holds more promise for my exposure than your contempt . Window: I exist inside my house while you drive away in a glow of red light cinders. Light diminishes and moves effortless towards the reoccurring night, when I stand at the window and wait for your return. Cabinet: I exist inside my house where the lineup remains the same, like tiny soldiers in a row. Inside each bottle, a burden of undelivered messages. To dissolve a handful will clear my identity, for a penis does not define a man. Tub: I exist inside my house as the water turns cold and the suds lose their comfort swell. I delay the notion to dry my remains, as the shave ??[?XZ?[??H??[??Z?HH\?\?]H[??[[?[???HY???????Q?SL?L?[??M ??K?L??L?L??SB??