I wouldn’t be high for a couple years
cutting your chin through our chatter, I remember
the churning of yearning,
an abrasive fear
forgetting every tooth in our smiles.
November, our supple glands exposed
we were four ships
brushing quietly in the bastions;
so you poured kerosene over our toes

and taught poised and cackling tongues
until we never slept a wink
without the sigh of something greater
Here, tear apart these things
pay no credence to their creators
so everything
was the truth
with your fist its righteous order
as you pulled us from the garden
and you taught us of the Lord—
oh, how these blisters ache in light
how they clog up all the pores,
now that every ship drawn to our eyes
drifts unrecognized
on to shore.