Get rid of the chairs so there can be drumming,
empty me out with a look.
Slow down again to feel something still beginning
but don’t expect me to come away clean or to glisten too much.
In this wide plain we’ll sit and not fall downhill.
Coffee runs into indigo ink.
Muscles melt away please so I can be slow-cooked
and fall tenderly off my bones.
I can see them as lumpy ash mixed with white
and it saddens me.
Not in a dramatical sense but in a way that is a constant tightness, a constant cramming, or cramping or clamping in.
My hand on my arm,
my pulse at my fingertips.
Not a striptease.
A shameful removal of clothes while you watch so angry.
Both unkindness and kindness makes me faint.
In the present day I pause not-knowing.
