between the sweat
on the sick bed, i circle stray satellites
clustered on the ceiling. i let bliss speak

and leave me weak.

     my sun
slow licks my lips:
a fire spit. hot tongue. bony hipped.
i strum his back. his skin
and soul.

i reach fever pitch
     and burn up 'til i hit
the floor.

a floor wet, full
red. a bed freshly *******.
a body bare and sickle. she
is visible; a living thing to crawl inside.
that arrow in the sky
lands between my crystal eyes;
i’d been lying in your sheets, staring
at the blue above the ceiling.
my edges taut into a ball, blacking out
the small sun rolling on my neck.
every fibre is obliterated, i feel everything
and nothing. gone.

i absolve you.
i cannot break apart anymore.
i am guilt, you are guilt,
our joint guilt is dust to the light air.
i absolve
each tread; red-eyed, dissolving.
you are a tiny god
wrapped around the wounds.
am i strong? or stupid? or both?
you were my idol for so long. now i
worship me. i make the judgment and create
new things. i can be ready for love again.

how many limbs are left on us?
am i holding the bed, or holding the peace
for the eighteenth-hundred time?
we bury     down
and grow up     like a tree     **** the tree.
i seek out arches of disparity; burning a space
in which only we can breathe:
i latch to each sigh that escapes from you.

and     i swell up     at the thought
of losing you

     all over again.