tonsiled 

the slug of your body lies dead upon the floor; it squirms for a funeral without a casket. 

I make a bad Schrödinger joke:                                           my cat died but did it ever exist?  

should I put a box over it?                                                            this is an empty plot for you. 

no, there’s no point.                                                                       no rise towards denouement. 

you’re already dead,                                                                                  torpid climax, I know. 

but endings are important.                                                            there is never a prolonging,

yet this dialogue must continue;                                    swiftly, before the monsoon season, 

tape our bones’ corners into roundness, no edge, while our mouths run agape with moss.

Venetian Ceruse

Into a new hide I slip and stand; I can’t heed this branded waterfall. 

I’ve withstood another drowning, but I am oyster-shut and clammy: 

no more, no more hurt. Mechanisms for torture, miniscule good. 

Still I live by perfection’s principle, worship every follicle, 

administer deathly roses and rub salt all over my pores. 

Sand in my nose, feet in watered jade, aural smoke threaded in every feature. 

Your portrait is flawless as ointment, my modern Venetian ceruse: 

I’ll rub the lead in all the more, brighter than your brush-stroked face. 

Each treatment makes me immaculate; a step closer to you.