when you do what you do
inside you it’s a who
reaching out black tree branches
thru your lungs and your eyes
in a white sterling darkness
neither dead nor alive
twisting morrow and bone
like a screw
when you do what you do
on her back spreading legs
raping death stilling breath
you become almost true
to the old silent ghost
open wings without feathers
nightingale in a worm
I was wondering if the scarf made last year
feels warm and soft to your neck
holding above the chin I have bitten and kissed
or
if the Victorian blanket I knitted
covers well your knees
the ones I caressed when they were sore and bruised and bleeding
or
if you’re still listening to
the carol I sang in a lower key
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