My fingers slink off like baby slugs. My nails are left, clamped like bark to a birch in a dying March winter. The air is wine.
My feet are hollow, stubby chins, my eyes dangle off like earrings, without sparkle or diamond for redemption: my lips are swollen, thrown-up pieces of lung strewn over my face. I breathe outside myself.
Your hair is pretty.
my toes are
I think you are the only warrior, the only poet, the only murderer I know who smells like that.
our legs are wrapped in sheets like wounded and sore babies out of a womb that
i have folds of skin in my palms, in the soles of my, in my, my me, i love
Let's have some babies.