your mouth, contagious memory of sweetness on the tongue

whispering voices through our sacred ears during the night

meadow of sunflowers, I want to lie in quietly

holding wrist against a wet rag heaving apology

forty-seven, return of sickness for the second time

photograph evidence and words but mostly in flashbacks

summer heat pressed against glass or a phone or a parked car

ants crawling their hungry way through holy skin, decaying

cracked open window for breathing without suffocation

claw your path through blue veins on pale skin and I will watch the

parade of history unwanted as it leaves the throat.

Muscle I thought I had, now softly disintegrating