By | 1 November 2012

When I read of a ribcage being sawn
then cracked open

I think of walking alleys
lined with glass, holding water. The squid can never close
its eyes and I keep finding another station
to get lost in, the rain pinning me, getting colder
we drink our fill and eat more
the taste of sesame oil coats our tongues
a drum pounds and a woman hums, sings,
plucks strings, silks arrayed around her

and here I am
a fistful of muscle in my hands
two litres of blood at my feet

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