My body unto yours made of oak and steel
contains confinement.
Centuries of practiced prayers
forgotten over an evening of consent.
What we've become
sinks
post mortem--
shelves with your hands touching them,
late night dancers who could be your
stunt doubles. Mannequins in shop windows
undressed for a season like the
face your mirror makes just before a shave.
Lips, a mouth swallows (love)
half eaten sandwich with withering leaves,
a circle of flies feasting on the counter
just outside the door.
We paint to speak. Browned knuckles from
falling into
the cracks.
