i like hunger when it is for you,
and the stirrings of laughter (from your
stomach, i suppose, so pale and sweetly
pliant) that gasp and stutter and shock
the air with their fullness, and are
sharp but do not terrify
everything about you is texture. there
is a rising and curling to your humanness:
something which shames the earth in its richness and
abundance of skin, and which is as bright and frightening as
your eyes glinting with sun. your spine recoils from the lack of shield
in shudders that spark
a swell of bones and snap! of skin, and when
anger jerks your fingers (light as
feathers hewn from an angel's wing)
the air writhes and sprouts teeth. my lips bleed
from its gnawing. i wonder what it is in
you that makes the very sky wither at your
sorrow — i only know it is something in you
that has been long unburied,
and it whispers to the restlessness in
me
