The clock has abandoned count. It simply hums now
and I need to tell you things so I don’t disappear.
I lay in bed with the fog draped over my body,
squirming in place, both vulture and prey.
My teeth are soft and all I really want
is to lick your wounds. I’m drawn to the fix, you see,
the clotting of blood.
The stars are empty prayers, offerings from some god
that accidentally dug us up. I can’t tell
if they blink in jest or in apology.
The moon gapes with a hollow hunger,
demanding its harvest. All night,
I try to feed the vital and fail. It can’t be done.
How do we survive if the mind wants to forage
but the body needs to hunt?
It doesn’t matter.
Just take what’s left of me
in the early morning.
Hold it up.
See if it matches the bruising of the sky.
