Something in her voice,
like the smallness of candlelight,
blossomed and bright, a freshly cut spine,
for my speaking.
Or the stretch of disease
like the yawn of a housecat;
flit of each playing card face
down on the table,
my own lust: a dark
halogen pop, the sweep of night janitors.
My body the size
of a crawl space, I can’t maneuver.
She tells me it is late, I should leave,
and I believe her.
Anything she says, I believe her.
The hardest stone must pass, 14 hands
consecutively must measure
the inseam of minor gods. The memory
of this count is a back road
erased by dead travel and she
is the double nakedness
of my best and worst intentions
because, I’ve been trusting darker things.
The hair stood up at the back of my neck
points me in the right direction.
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