We are thinking “tucked under sheets” the world creeps up to a sudden chin--
somber hearts sleep in temples of flesh
Beating through the telephone wires/
bleeds in whatever direction
the thin, platelet suns of ourselves
call the transfusionist for new blood--
call anyone who will gather a listen
to mystical arrays of whatever love is siphoned
through the intricate tubes of an arm
I’m howling--- then I’m over it
I’m colder than a tomb in some Gothic romance novel ------
my bed is engulfed
in musky currents of sweat and she is dying like a poet dies
with her head full of minute circuitry
and words beginning with the letter C
