my world is not your world even if I address it to you and it comes to your hand in an envelope that is the glorious depth of dark velvet pansies enclosing an invitation in cursive blood on parchment of my own skin limed and scraped and rubbed carried in the pale beak of a Major Mitchell’s cockatoo that has learned to softly whistle Night and Day so as to serenade you while you read my burgundy words  -  please come skinny-dip with me in the liquid night sky - for all I know your world is a ragged groan over a blurry photo in a porn magazine but oh the  experience of this sweet life