And I will come for you


that something else that holds me to air.

I listen to the brown nape of your neck, for which I cannot catch,

As the milk runs through the walls like a child’s cry.

Flakes from my elbow fall: a trail of macadamia;

A trail to the iron cast cauldron of yesterday’s afternoon.

The red eye sun driving our morning in mourning,

We wait, and glisten our ears to the intention of silence.

We fill each other’s empty hands with roll away tea-cups.

In 25 years we’ll be silver lined, a last resort for marriage.

You wear stitches to show something is missing;

A glass eye, with pursed lips, naked as paper, my boy.

I close my eyes; arbor-shaped blackness gallops in.

You are unable to lick away the crust of my tendons;

or to remove the whores’ petticoat from her island shoulders.

Darling, does my chameleon heat not astound you?

Does my triple tongued severus power not excite you?

Stoke in the light, with lemon water and chicken broth,

And all other yellow things, and I will come for you.

And I will comfort you…