it can be any day—but mostly
mornings
when I can almost taste
the clothes I own & watch the light of day
cast
a shadow
there are no incidentals—I understand your hands
and their
intentions/the carcass of all
your
disappointments in the whistle
between the gap
of your
yellow
teeth
we spoke of guns and laughter—how we’d pull
the trigger with our
big toe/ how you’d knit
a blanket that would wrap
around me
99 times—
our bodies unable to suck at the poison/
wore crowns and bruised instead/
an escape
of
breath
we tasted the fruit too ripe/ a mass
between digits
year after day after wound—a page waits empty—under
our
tongues
