and such orbs are pierced
toothpicks through olives
pins studding balloons
a tree’s roots into this rock
knitting needle through eye

i buried a clot of blood beneath
clods of earth and leaked some
vitreous fluid onto your manuscript
you were writing a song
no, you were writing ‘a song’
on the page over and over again
but there was no music.

i lent you my neck and you took
a syringe of my blood
i gave you an inch and you took
a cross-continental lurch
across wrinkled bedsheets
and we mapped our yearning
for more bones to add to our
necklaces and hearts with
their coconut creme fillings.

the charade of the existence
of negative numbers wrote
itself on the inside of a skull
cradled in a dust-covered hand
while the dental records burned
quietly in the corner and
we knew we were at zero
and that was enough.


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