openings (draft)

Because we are wintered and blued,

witched and sugared, the bed harbors

collapse and our pockets, a flood.



Strange how this wound in my

mouth opens a bit when I say love.

A strangle that pools the sheets



and soaps the dawn blurry.

Given time I can linen my body

to white, can map the coordinates



of continental drift by the shift

of vertebrae. What spreads,

what closes, like buttons on a dress.

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