islands scouring the slips for who came
closest. I tented my sour girl with boy-textured
leans from the could-have bin. Couldn’t let out
what lived in the back with all the trouble rubbing
at my tender. A girl’s sight becomes real
in the flee, her thrum of identifying marks,
private seams, marbles of fat for the pillage.
I meet myself at every mask collapse.
Like the old wounds slack on my hiddens I was
the danger I exchanged for my hair, the song
I rubbed against my song.
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