names as fog, rolling off your tongue
and into obscurity; the intonation: a last
wave, undulating into the breath of water;
a fetus of your new self passed backward
and ruled dead; a "finger gun" version of football
when play resumes that excludes only the ball,
so all rules, physicality and hubris remain
just like so, it is an absurd spectacle as
we ****, swipe, fling, go fish, 52-card-pickup,
put down, lay down, get laid and stumble
across each other's 50-yard line--ghost football in
hand and ready, always, to extend its power.
the rules, ostensibly, may disappear next,
as the literal object of the game already has;
does your cooch count as encroachment if
i'm playing without a conscience? perhaps
there is no pass interference if there is nothing
to catch but shade, as "yours" becomes "mine".
an ex-centric sleep paralysis featuring Dr.
Mengele, vivisecting your various organs and
sewing them back together with the flesh of
your previous lovers--the skin spooled, finely,
off exact replicas of their disembodied heads;
the dream repeating until only craniums
are left, restarting if necessary. you breathe
one break up from your lungs upon waking;
it skates an icicling of memories through your
byzantine airways, which only body warmth
can melt; you, cold-blooded, slither over.
another, atomized ***, leaving mostly tender
markings; a vindictive scratch in your throat;
forcing a cough, it can force you to cough-up
nothing it would like, for it merely reminds.
the tenderness exists, despite the neglect.
as an apathy of rain slackening out, failing--
at some point--to dissipate at all, your name
fades into the vocabulary of other words;
it can become, even, archaic and appear out
of place--forced, as if to make a point of itself.
falling into unmemory,
someone starts with
a "clean slate"--and pretends
to be someone they are not;
sleeping with me
in their lungs.