The touch of skin (so soft) between shirt
and jeans; aperture of the hip – the bone –
like mountains shift in a skirt of fog. Finger-
print moon on red skin, is now fading. Glance
of Beautiful Medusa, fire hair tips
exposure cries for you. In dark you die
alive. Illuminated eyes, the counter-veil,
the bulb before it hurts. Sunrays across
the floor, in slanted forest negative.
She said she had been asleep. She calls
to bed now, replicating the feel
of hands, the asp under the pillow. Dead
between finger and skin. Fingertips of men, her
landscape – like cities: Steel and metal form
destroy the view with view. Dried up tear
ducts, eyes flash view to view to fill
the void. Her stomach; receding water before
the waves, the sand is brilliant light – nova
star. She takes only pictures with her
in frame of metal wire and gold. She takes
only the heart. The bed is filtered fire.
This iris diaphragm controls her desire -
born of midnight miscarriage upon
the back. Written in blood upon the sheets
is her – not you – not truth – no not the girl
inside. She plays the only song she knows
off-key upon the operation table,
and yet I sit and overlook with mask
off. Softly I pick up the brittle leaf
and try to feed it. She focuses in on me,
I feel the burn around my neck. “Asleep”,
She said. She tucks the sheets under the bed.