I carry Tarkovsky's ear in my pocket, still listening to the rain of Stalker, while the rest of his body evaporates in memory like a priest who lost his faith but not his habit. I carry Wong Kar-wai's eyelids in my chest, always late,...

And you chew on my hand,skin and bone,like a mangy dogstill believingin one last caress. You chew on my hand,thirsty for touch,for a point of focus,for the image that loopslike a tired mirror:you chewing on my hand. My hand that strokes...