a red moon crusts on a right

hand--pulled from blankets

that shift into folds.

spread cleaner than the Face

of these.

all the matter kept, a

tutelage of flocking

black birds closing their

schoolbook.

a soundless penmanship

of two withheld bodies.

words are very difficult

when they come alive in

proximity.

serpents trade bedsides

in deep sleep.

their waking eight coincides with

the slowest fathom--dousing the

legend of a heart.

it's so strange when it follows you

around.