By | 1 November 2018

I, a ghost of myself (groans and all), and you, cumbersome
with so much opacity. Itching in the aisles of hangers.
Each point of contact enacting a five-star violence
they don’t know to call a violence; grinning and belted.
Glitching in the aisles, mate ah ma’am.
I knew I was a worryman when I began using my form
as a floatation device, a skeleton key, a dustpan –
corrections in neat brushwork v, v, v, v, v v, v, v, v, v
I knew you were really alive each time your body
ingested the words a lie, a lie, a lie, like
snips of red felt by the traitor ah, tailor
placing pins in the lack of it all. Grief is a puncture in the lobe
that never quite closes – a moaning o, o, o, o, o
How desirous you are, at times,
to slip inside a different mass like a lapel pin,
if it could only hold you close ah closed ah clothed.
All the while I am holding mybreathself open
where I have nothing for you. Which is to say, so much longing
it haunts us both. Undress yourself and slip inside my body,
elusive as it is, anytime you want to.

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