in the cohort of her hands, a disorder
lost dignity wrapped in the red of need
reckless and arrogant as lilies
an abundance of periphery
wavers at the sea-black hand
of hands of time of hands
rune stones
black granite spattered in stars
a slutter of language
of words of wombs
necrotic we burst
a pause of however
a narcosis of want
meander of limbs
siphoning brine-white tide
colorless-the disorder
marquis of white shadow
on seal slick waves
and the lilies,
petal outward
and in the silence
there were unknown weeks
where the flowers foundered
other bodies
there is a form in the garden
still as clay
we reddened our mouths
and still like clay
slant of a neck untattered
partitioning cerebral sea
arcing back on itself
there was a benign negligence
in the want-of flowers of lilies
vague signs of amplitude
pachyderm and small
in the grooves of lack
malnourished, contrite hands
flushed blooms of pink paper along
pink walls-flush seas of lack
vague symbols of wood and
purulent understanding a
nest of roots
dipping towards the alkaline sea
we didn’t even begin to understand
the range of mourning
becoming us
smooth white shells of elegant
weakened at the hock
distempered by the recent winters
foundering in the vacant space
between us
I mule you
through the tapestries of my desert
and am still, here
where I don’t belong
here I am spread as an excess
as an unfortunate truth
glossed by negligent hands
anxious, with the possible morning
indistinct dwindling winter
curling pink paper
along the walls of black sea
earth-tide
small weakened arrangement of groundcover
jostling in the ferns of truth
we measured the years in numerals
as with skin, ardent and ruddy
palpable lost youth
the rare wood of mistake
loosened from sleep
in the morning we resemble damaged objects
prized for obedience
at odd angles of deformation to time
in the body, a funeral
still warm
skin and stone a slender neck of atonement
for the absence of home
