You push your galaxy into my chest.
Stars explode in my cavities
alighting the crevices previously abandoned and then remade.
Dirt mixes with blood and slowly drips
out of the tunnels we built when the dark became too much
to exist in independently.
I sit in a bathtub filled with lead.
Two silken dogs look up at me expectantly then turn away
looking back and I follow.
Their barking punctuates
the pressing curtain of night.
They fold into it.
What happens to language when it is spoken on a bed.
The blank white space. It’s incubation.
It’s antiseptic and erotics and mundanity.
A blue hysterical moon
hangs heavy and low
as if it were pregnant, as if its child
landed on earth and as if
that child were you.
Whatever is coming
must first pass through my body.
I am your white blood cell.
I am your cold-blooded snake
curled tight in a thicket of grass,
shining scales shed
in order to awaken
the dead things
inside of me.
Slow lightening leaves
patterns in the sky like signals.
Let them take you
to the dark hollow space
where our bodies’ rationalities
can be broken down.
Remove the form,