Your mouth / want to hook cheek with index finger. You keep it closed mostly. It doesn't look open, not even when you eat. But / Yawn, makes sharp incomplete circle of your face. Slicing half-disc, threatening lure, set-- want to hook it during rare strain, feel spit. Catch site of red in there, clear burgundy resin,
caricature of genital substance.
Emily Dickinson with a fascination for the volcanic
Dickinson's as good as sculpture today, in her removal.
Picture the inside of your nasal passage, raw to air's touch, bone dry cavity. Petite / stubborn and off-pink. And gross. Double of the rest of me.
My affexion's not a drought. I just want it to stay foreign in it's feeling. Please us superficially. There's grace in that, that I want, short tightenings. You are like a statue, for me / coral colored stone & very far away.
Sopping adulation, repulsing. Bacteria that grows in pressed dampenings, between boiled Comfrey in plasma drenched rags. I'll accept the wet, some short slushings / mucilaginous but antimicrobial because
Every time I will dry us off, prompt, my promise of continuity. Cleanliness in a now presupposed longevity, if I will work so hard,
keep it arid.