1.
the value of your bones increases along with the mass deflection of a missing cracked skin-tone and i fold back, fold back, as if variously under the stainless sheets or under attack by fire and steel. amidst all battles of phrase and atom, nothing i say in the usual chanted hum rhymes with you but for the very minor word that i still mean to feel through. is this enough to hold two?
2.
you can't possibly be the angel, the angle of history having repeatedly shirked off its responsibilities, its heady thrust gone berserk on alternate the burst of forever our fevers. but you can't possibly be the boy, having nothing in you that's invincible and beyond the lip; at the small tip of that finger i bit i still spot the wet bit and know you for nothing but the going. who could guess a shape out of this and who could do you a gender still when you generate such speeds of accident and success?
3.
just for a moment or less i know you to be a great event and yet nothing aside from a micro-monument to nothing that endures in thought; just for a moment or less i know you tough, thorough and hot to the touch that trespasses on the cool of your collected odds. what are you still after i have recognized so much and how could i ask you to cease in energy and size?
4.
absolutely nothing is at stake because the pitch of your manouevre will never die out. brief relief: nothing is personhood and you are very great and good.
5.
before the fact, my sisters tend to alleviate my ache with soft science tricks that skirt truths or dicks and put plentifulness in place right at the spot of the shadeless pace of an undoing. it is as simple as it sounds and so supple the fruit too of a frailty that falls through the phallic or historical or gone; when all is said and done i have fallen in hysterics yet not come: the text is prepared. it's not a psychic set-up as much as the pull of the promise; something to do with community and the beautiful compromise. later that day you interrupt my writing and ask me: "who are your sisters? how many parts have you yet to gather? how can we be together in a way that won't put you together? who are my sisters?" i have no answers for any of this, so i call out, call out.
6.
again and again, you allow me to be exactly another. this is just how it goes and as fully as i yield.
7.
before i'm through will the sister-text, the para-text, the meta-text and the like, you ask for a smaller form of attention to the torsion of your muscle under my thumb, at the spot of a geographical depression on your deep tissue where other animals gain traction and human traces do not attract you. i figure myself an apprentice and put my lip right to the irregularity and the rule of your nature erupts: my mouth is done with and we transfigure the molds of a transaction into the channels for a blue translation of "heresy" between me and you. and i'm lucky to be gone.
8.
when i emerge i have learnt nothing but the writing goes through. my lips coalesce again around the luminescent non-presence of your power still diffused. your well-used apparatus rests assured and asunder right under the stainless sheets - or under attack by fire and steel? no matter, battles wait and the bells of the afternoon shatter the shell of a calm only to the extent we allow them to. i hold you right next to nothing and finish my doing, my sisters in sight and your sound in full sway.
9.
this is all i manage for now: the poem's movement over your sleeping body will have to do.
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