i carry your bones
the sad smooth curve of your ribs

i cleansed what was left of you under the tide

she is organza and rough, nubbly raw silk
that tears your fingers
and bleeds you purple, sweet.


civilizations rise and fall
in the curve of her mouth.

and they'll be sun, and fresh pages, text spilling, twisted, frothing at(out of) the mouth, they will be ghosts, transparent, don't touch wet paint, fingernail ghosts. symbiotic isn't smooth, biological, organic twining of vines you could cut with a nail, picture frames of postcards of gilt china and five sixteenth caviar plates. rhythms follow their own pattern, a set onetwoirresponsiblenumber of a monday pattern, rash birds, ink birds beat in the thrumming warm alive of you. curled, embryonic coats in white and grey form three barriers in notes of bibliophilia. sleeping aniseed furls sails of pretty youth and immortality, secrets -hush!- in a tiny box of a hand, palm first and shining.

a slithering urge rips up my appetite by grass-like fistfulls,
an urge to condense
falter every thought that has the audacity to contaminate my psyche.
the gentle thrumming under-skin is knotted firmly
to the drum of words tapping.

a shell, its contents,
tearing, perforated and utterly whole.
wring the rag
gulp the freshly stolen, assimilated goods
and spread the contents of your stomach for special exhibition.

she leaves pauses,
pregnant and lingering,
until the route to the next unmists.
a familiar pang gasping,
urging now shout and dare and spill
spill invent a new word for the pulsing
of yourself rising within yourself,
like so much bile,
**** as you please and leave careful notes
until the entirety of your vocabulary is spent,
burnt to a nub.

lingering,
dab, we’re spitting,
moisten our fingers
and spread an understanding fear
quickly on our foreheads,
a mark of thoughts unread,
drenched neatly
reading themselves and tying
knots in chewed, spat-out
hair, textured thick and tuggable.

my my,
how you’ve changed,
apologies accepted and regurgitated,
bruises healed,
a roughening granite pattern
pressed on your skin
for attention purposes,
a knowledge bank.

a scream flips itself,
fetal in the wires of your words,
read underneath, through the sickness
there’s a density
gentle and curved,
it waves funnily at strangers
and cowers in front of that black dog,
she sleeps on the porch
because of her lack of emotion.

my loose hair hides in the pockets of my clothes
calves and elbows jumbling tiredly along the gravel path
that leads to the road
that leads to the only quiet place
left in a city

the strands close their eyes individually so i can dress
the blinds are plastic
and it's too bright to nail a blanket over them
so i make pancakes
and sleep

blond hugs the black of my coat and declares illness
washington doesn't have a secretary of commonwealth
which means the question is blank

the concept of death lies parturient in your mouth,
swollen and festering, writhing in itself,
as weighty as a missing molar and just
as visible.

retch and gag,
spend nights fishing for your soul
through your stomach,
you are beating bus seats
for dust, for dry little particles
that will hopefully soak through
your skin.