your house was yellow.

my house was blue and
a ten by ten box;
me trapped,
torn between watching them
pack up their stuff
from their own pact to self,
their own inculpability
and me, dripping virulence,

telling them otherwise and
pushing them out.

I really miss your hands on me.
the way you held me in sullen incubation.

the frame is melting and so am I.
in the cradle of tar black trees,
I remember the oldest incantation:
the thrust I was given,
some gleaned anticipatory luck;
God gave you a chance and

 an unfinished smile.


we needed a spark.
I grin full tooth to show you
my new porcelain canines,
I fight the urge to bow
and suddenly tiptoe
all around you,
two inches taller than you remember
and my tongue hits your neck
like a quill.

hold your breath,
I say and
I’m a smokeshow, they say.

for some other current to take me.
bite your skin.
let the tips of my
fingers dig in and


there are no exits.



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