Poetics

xxiii

first you say his body is made different. I look this up

in all possible houses, to find only detergent and hints

that his body exists. you know how people leave certain

things behind when they move – that’s his body.

I try to write about you, about reading Ishion

to you in your sleep, your skin covered in vodka,

your hands grazed from the tight knot of the rope,

your tummy flat like some sad number, your mouth

slightly open, an invitation, your sex closed, and

on your forehead the words: his body is made

different, and I cannot resist it.

In your sleep, halfway into a poem, I say:

I want to be sad with you.

You tie me up nicely

and fuck me and feed me your fluids and wear that black

thing without any underwear on.

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