What's hard, sandy, and won't crush
like sweet olives against my lips?
I lie on barbed wire but dream
of caves plushed with skin. My mind's
lined with vaseline, my body cups
like a breast against the sheet.
Think of angels. Their marble knees
streaked with veins, their thighs
locked against the touch
that spreads the skin alive —
they lean their nipples into my face
and whisper "grace" and "pure."
My hairs curl under rising sheets
like monkey's fur; five-fingered
enemies want to crack my cage.
Will it hold?
Can skin dance rigid against bone
til the whites of my eyes
break and dreams leak through?
But my palms sweat for sleep —
its velvet curl against curl
when the mind is dead and hands
root in their sweet element.
Oh christ send toads and spiders
to crawl with me tonight.
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