I don’t wince under her fingers-
they are as loving as mermaids,
they’re sea green and charming
along the inside of my arm-
her hands crinkle up like bags,
and then she switches my blood.
we’re closer now, by the touch,
and i want to tell her how
ironic life’s been, by and by,
for the flood of God’s pernicious wit

all along the while that I’ve wished
and worn my skin-
the other day, especially, in two instants-
God goaded me in maxims
on the back of a coffee cup,
then tumbled off the first random page
in a book I opened, and pursed its lips;
now, kiss-craters, pinpoints, portals
in my elbow crook tell me
“believe, and laugh, and be made
better for all of this.”

must be a blessing, I think, the poison perhaps
is tricking me towards goodly, humorous ghosts;
but for me and my body, treacherous to the both,
then to Godly oath- the three of us,
we’ll never let each other forget
that as I curse and flail and steal and scare
God has turned me into a sort of joke
and Holy, maybe, I’ll never truly know-

certainly, not as long I recall
letting viscous loose on the air,
dredging up my body’s violent boon;
and certainly, not as long as
I step out to the night,
to fold up in smoking flights;
and not as long as I become lucent,
grasping, cradle-fingers
that stroke all of those
shuddering wants from the cold,
flaxen belly of the moon.

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