My ankle and the walls are paying
in pain for this desire. And I no less
hold holes in me much bigger than my heart,
ironically fist-sized - or so I tell my eyes,
which have never seen the gruesome sight
of warm truths under skin.
When I was asleep
among white bones and the quiet rituals of night,
the world seemed softer, the moon's open mouth
full of music.
Now floating on this sea of dreaming dead, it's clear
he was always screaming. Always screaming
about the sun,
about how cold the dark face - and there is never
no dark face - of him is.
How did my body wake in this huge house?
The very stillness
of its parts inspires
me to run
and burn. But
I know that in the freedom of the air
I'd only feel the wind more sharply
biting thru my openings and voids.