faucet drips, sink, porcelain, meat.
i can't understand
what anyone is saying in this house.
within pale apprehension, light collects,
salvages a minor inflection. the dish bleeds
splotches of residual life, and it sickens me,
nausea turmoilt, utensil impressing itself upon
some face or another. in heaven
my hair will be silver, everything
i have ever digested will carefully tap my head
an aluminium egg, spilling guts over
a careful mountain. soul always
tucked away in my stomach, yours, holding heart
compressing a regular pulse.
this is the second nose bleed to decorate my face
you, beauty attended. we hope that she
was never married. carrying on under this affair, under
weeks of rain and trying hands. you notice,
that our dinner is spoiled.