purple dye, Socrates, and backaches  
find yourself
and not the boy.

i sleep but my heart-
we can't.

my sister.
my bride.

i don't need shoes to follow
17
blood and bare feet

my sister.
my bride.

guilt says it'll taste of
blackberry thorns
and  

sugar

catherine is in blue
and bandages her finger with grass and a feather
her mother is sure she took on grace whilst in the womb
who is first and and yet an afterthought?
catherine is bleached
between girls breathing rococo and the washing machine that doesn’t distinguish the separation of her name or fabric
ever maid
where does she go and you begin?
that brother has the ocean compressed in his eyes
and it’s the ships that go by in the night
that make her as penitent as the Magdalene
catherine is moving
and if she takes on the sun it’s best to leave some in Catalonia
if she carves herself in flesh
she should do so herself

i dreamt of a boy
thistles with pickles and ice cream
one pale thing by the name of Sublunar 96B
he told me his mother tasted of cheese
i spat him out
donkey teeth
with a stuck jawbone
ladies and gentlemen, these are my hands
my knees

i cut out his eye for his exchange for a kind of affection
adam and eve kind
supposed roses and lightening between my legs
it doesn't exist for Paul and I
instead i take the color of his iris and make use of his holding carnal expectation and assumption
paint his pupil color for my bedpost
on thursdays i hang the little oculus around my neck
and at night put it in the back of the cupboard

his mother thanks me for it
puts a bit of moonlight
hypodermic in squiggling veins
in the morning we wear each other's face