Morning light,

I take the sad fact of my body

to the kitchen table


at least part time

trying to find somewhere

to put it for a living.


(Eat everything,

eat nothing?

“Still die.”)


This process might look impressive from far away,

in certain contexts.

I guess it looks like hunting.


Now I just spill milk on my chest

pretending you’ll unsee it, couldn’t imagine it happening


in the first place. You’ve said

I remind you of those deep water

high stress fish:


cakey eyes, headlights that make sense

in pitch nothing but

when taken to surface


explode. I had to tell you

“explode” isn’t really the word,

too sensational —



their cell membranes

decompress without the proper prodding,


easing form, melting fat, brains

get stuck in mouths (so much for

selective barriers).


In bed, feeling less finite than ever

I dream a dream so I can remember

rubbing my face against yours


at the right pressure for

opening oysters,

pearls everywhere

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