The remnants I no longer believe the words that float inside without the pretension of release Father your loneliness this empty church is my answer my mother All that is destroyed is my love don’t ask don’t repeat tell me I treasure the copies with original envy with majesty reserved for a tourist this way when I say help you cannot pretend to misunderstand you cannot turn to the other two in a different language and respond simply with How still you feel How closely this resembles love. Father even violence can be redeemed this way. When enclosed in this much solitude. In this temperature and Mother it has much to do with age and never being mine. But what I have to say is fluent     the consistency of my concerns are fluent