harking back to an earlier poem of mine: poor wendy -- all the heroines get left behind. but she was a darling after all. yes, i very much have tears in my eyes. and it shall be hard to see, and sometimes i won't want to, but i will go on looking an...
blood bawls freckled nostalgia on my legs and stomach with a lunar distance which is both dazzling and dizzying. this overflow of love is a splash of sangria to the thighs that i clean up with a tongue, and clicked hip. sweet sting; it was all the same for three four pretty things — only three hearts had been left on the bedside table before. calf muscles, arms wing spread or coiled around, i could not see their faces pillow pressed i couldn't hold back my own metal wing from extending a silver feathered glance to them — as my own eyes fixed over your singular shoulder, the ceiling and its merciless emptiness. the mandala on the wall which revoked my mouth that had felt your weight press us all to the mattress and i could not unsee us all all of our faces dismal as one another — carcasses, blood and bone and mucus, dermata sliced and scored.
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