you put down the grapes of wrath beside your bed table, the opal of the night shivers the metallic door rustles as you breathe and as the carnations in my lungs contract
you step into a room but the room is not a room, it is 1948-C by clyfford still we all want to touch something beautiful the inside of your thigh new york at dawn a velvety ribbon choking at your neck
charismatic and curteous as you lead me to your room blindfolded I stand in my naivety, a lantern in my abdomen you long to touch, a murmuration, a flock of starlings flies out we fall deep into the bedcloth, an investigation of the other
the lines become less abstract, you say the last train that passes into the night is the artist I laugh, the lantern starts to flicker, it burns as I turn my insides out
