after sylvia

& tina







                I look for you

        in the crinkle pop

                 blister foiled

 two moon mournings

              after I swallow

                        third eyes

              mahler’s fourth

             vision of heaven

                      waiting and

                     just like that

           puckered rings toll

                           bells, wake

                    the love parade.
                            I smell drizzle

                              then dehydrate

                       hard yakka on the fly

                            and blood left brown

                                  on skin which vespers

                                                    spittled spirits

                                        ‘cos when you’re done

                                           I try to hum how I died

                                                                a little bit

                                                                 (excuse

                                                      the french),

                                                  how you’ve

                    mopped up when I came

                                              to settle

                 to bury you so much
                                     slower :

                           bottlenecked

                                    to arterial

             my mouth will tessellate

                                              middles

                                             of your virus

                                       or at least a la niña

                                       where we blamed girls

                                                       for the reservoir

                                             where youse are a flood

                                                                         orange-lit

                                                                bastard musk

                                  and our throats pitch here to

                                                                      O god

                                      or something kinder

                                                     but still
                                  blasphemy,

           and we learn to wean

         the diminutives back-

  arched, mouth pillowed

    covenant to tithe points

                          of milk-warm,

                     crystallised honey.