Fingers in the cuts
between our legs and
seal the wound that makes more of us
hungry, feeding from the same meal
bruising by angelsex in dark rooms that
smell of unwashed dogs while our wings scratch
the bedside will, the mirror a frame for
the boundaries of the self raisin skin
and its idiot, greasy-fingered kids
that play half-naked
between the mattress and the real
light cocoon of dust
proto-planetary disk bleeds into
spheres as static
is your milk honey,
baby?
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