Spoken

1 November 2017

we tried to write
bodies
but they only
smoked out
into dry curses,

no
wetness,
blood or
meat
like this.

i nurse sorrow
behind my teeth,
until it
turns
hot –

we could be
forgotten, imagine –

no trace or
scent of sex,
i chew on
blue
relics

(when
what i
want
is you,
slowly –

when
what i
want
is to be drawn
down low).

here:
we wash ourselves

in midnight gardens,
this green
dark,
knees in the
dirt

you were
touching me
a fat dogged
love
on my tongue

in a place
where
you might have
trapped a star
in your mouth

but you had lost
the taste for reaching out

so
we stayed red
and close together
licking pink salt off of
fingers

soft mirrors that fall from
thighs

this would be enough
to cut me loose.

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