you live
in the mess of my print, in
the meaning
of words that come
before your name

the blue of
pen ink and bruised
skin

you are the liver’s thirst
and the beer bottles
thrown
against stagnancy
you contort my dreams,
working through
sleepless nights

the deep blue of ashes
bruised
skin
my pen ink

you
coming in all forms
except  that of
mercy