i am always waking up

(the cold magnetic sky, stadium lights, us wearing steam, parachutes, centipedes, a dream...)

her breathing was gunsmoke, a web of light, a forest taking arms in my eyes.

and here i am, cut clean of that, licking the thick years off morning glass, sleeves of tin foil, vodka and milky eyes. i adjust some feathers, rattle my mail, empty my fingers into sockets.

must that spins these rainstorms and silkworms, and beautiful globe, and birds of colour that my eyes are so full up, and cavernous clouds, and toothache, and memory of sex.

(there were to be no mornings without, any more)

you are printed on leaves. you taste like dry marker. you bristle smoke from an earth. you listen to some scar. you radiate spare death. you throw wings. you believe in cold horses.

////////////////////////////
////////////////////////////
////////////////////////////
////////////////////////////

the day is sick in its stomach, burning on a branch, sweating from your putrid wood. there is some sugar plastered to his cheek, some bone ragged in his lock, some string he chews bloodied. the day is heatstroke, and unessential, and jerking games. the day is hungry, filtering through fences and gates, so once far.