The bruises swell, sacrificing these bodies,
deadweight limbed and telling. Faith, can you
see the razor burns? Our skeletons are iridescent,
fragile shelters of twigs and weeds (hearts:
portable no longer). We are experimental. The
symphonies can be heard from beneath our
blankets, yet the stitches are calloused, immortal
between backlash scars and craving.

The flood gates will open by tomorrow’s morn,
latched wide by today's faithful noose.

11/20/2003

Posted on 11/21/2003
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