full pelt.

after twenty eight days of
broken architecture halfsmiles of
veins winding in your
limbs like wooded paths you
begin to notice
the wind slipping through the holes
between branches and fingertips like breath and even if
you are not numbed by the snow, even if
you carry with you letters and pebbles that
cannot feel the cold, we
erase each other and the fog
swallows us up inside of it on the
dried up riverbank of the afternoon…

we are
only animals in the
dark, made up of
slippery elegant insides; the
tendons and sinews like celery strings
(each tight like a pulled stitch), the
warm snarls of arteries, your
delicate edible heart.
our love was
dumb and thumbless, it
beat in your chest like a kickdrum,
spilling out like a fresh bruise.

there was always something
simple or organic about
handiwork of bitten nails about
me dancing in the cages of your pupils, the
the fluttering of your camera hands
but there are
too many tangles, too many
furs and bodily fluids
involved in our taxidermy.