not just grief but
marks & sparks

tights what leave a mouth around your
waste. she probably opens in different ways,
a small aperture. a large glass of wine
is half a bottle.

if you snap open your peepers through the murk and static 
somewhere there on the bloody horizon lies Securitas. 
it is a sinking city and the inhabitants grow lacy webs 
like doilies between their toes. the walls are cakes: 
it is a place of pain.

we am bound to get fused 
like the chin and neck in an acid attack- to be one 
like a single crow on a lorry, bled together like sense, 
your duty like a dull grey throb that pulses nil.

outside are stretches of tears, cat-hair. 
long days of pouting at mr death like a milkless christ.
Men to battle on Relevant Subjects, 
the endless teachings of older women 
wrapped in disappointment like mystical roadside hags.

you travel back in and grapple with an artifact.
it is a rolling pin, yet the end is covered in human tissue.

you recall your mother reversing into a motorcyclist.
i could have fucking killed him

that queer sort of joy, 
quickening her hips into life.