[ ]
The dust layers
into grease. Four waxy apples
split to eight, four, eight. I let myself want, then
I just keep wanting. A low light, weird,
watery thin, blocks
the room for reference. Renders a man
in more sketchable shapes. Acts of god, great
valleys between bones. A good sweep returns
neat piles, ever neat piles. Speak your stuckmud
trouble, this too
as ever a story
about gentle hands.
The pressure drop hums.
The porch light sputters.
Behind the muscle, an orderly world.
My little room blocked
and swimming, I beg for something to hold,
to smooth, something hot and bloody
to shock to life. I break all ten nails
on the felled moon, or what may
be worn sidewalkrock
sliced and wormed through.
Dust in my lungs, driftwood changing shape,
every slant smile a fresh blow.
To a trustworthy face, I turn on a heel.
This belly light in strange country. My heart,
my heart, tell me something I can believe.