My cell is a remote,
and we are older than Latin.
In dreams, the brown shirts
press their kisses hard
against your absence.
Vaguely, I remember
what the crotch wants.

There are spans as ****
and clean as housekeeping.
This room reminds me
of tree carvings.
I'm an inch away from
when I might poke brave.

I'd like to take red-light
risks while turning down
the thermostat to freezing.
A wrinkled artist with a
thumb on words.
My hair is shattered without
your fingers to connect.

In a look the hood
comes off greasy
smiles and all. I remember
being a condemned vehicle
living vagrant by a thick
university of corpses.
Unsolved, at the foot
of a stairwell.

Sara Fielder © June 2018