The Book in Which I Found You

You wrote "my souls,
three of them
have not spoken
in years."

Secretly,
they've learned
to live on wine
and beer

and a few
well-memorized
excuses.

I read
your book
about forgetting,
splitting, that life

is burning
inside a space
no bigger than
your skull.

You said,
"a guest in a room,
a fatherless boy,
the wounded luxury

of a corpse
are masterpieces."
Your third voice,
the one that wrote:

"my souls
are yours"
told me where
to find you.