I guess I drink to talk and stick around when I should bounce and am never certain. But if you provide the rope, I'll pull down the sun with my tongue.
The bottles left their quiet stains on the tables
where the liars were fed their sedatives to architects for human houses.
Stitch skin over calcified and fractured marrow.
(The others) still sleep a stone's throw away and hardly show their teeth.
You could've sat amongst carcinogens and sweet unwed things
with unmarked hands aimed at what is and what is to be exposed.
Eyes sewn stay tethered and tied to the red bird, til lungs purified
and I've come to caffeinate the awkward shape that occupies my line of sight.
She never met the one that gave her the eyes in her head.
I'm often frightened by the songs that children make. Boasting the most sagacious of gashes. Keeping mirrors in my throat, retrieving red gypsy lungs in little paper cities.
We draw our names on walls and frozen floors.
So paint me a portrait of ropes and I promise to tether my tongue to the sun.