You are like a war novel， entirely lacking

    female characters， except for an occasional

    letter that makes one of the men cry.

    I am like a table

    that eats its own legs off

    because it's fallen

    in love with the floor.

    My frantic hand can't find where my leg

    went. You can play the tourniquet. A tree

    with white limbs will grow here someday.

    Or maybe a pup tent

    that's collapsed in on itself，

    it so loves the sleep

    of men sleeping beneath it.

    The reason why women dislike war movies

    may have something to do with why men hate

    romantic comedies： they are both about war.

    Perhaps I should

    live in a pig's trough.

    There， I'd be wanted.

    There， I'd be tasted.

    When the mail bag drops from the sky

    and lands heavy on the jungle floor， its letters

    are prepared to swim away with your tears.

    One letter reads：

    I can barely feel

    furtive. The other：

    I am diminishing.