Yours is a precision arm
a reach which could
make spines forget legs
or left forget right
tongue forget tongue
your screen unlocked
head bowed in prayer
private and away
your face a mask of orange neon
with the expression forms a sign to ‘wait’
seconds before, we were one
language of limbs, a conjoined creature
now cut in two by your device
a bedside surgeon
and I’m still glazed by our fluids
He disturbs the bed super-imposing crumpled sheets like a mistake left on a page, proof of impatience with a hunger for lead or an artist’s tongue to draw a line, on hips virile brackets to exist with
Rain comes eliminating the sky with glass shards falling down to make heads bow melting my clothes into cold outlines limits of my skin exposed forcing me to exist and witness entranced like the first
Seeing you in a thousand boxes me in a thousand beds a thousand sparks crack four thousand limbs inside a thousand bone gloss-rooms I see them bounce you off the sky from ruins built to honour it a th