Fried nocturnes into the deep night I don't find her
clothes flung on barbed wire to climb naked I don't find her
I push baths I move showered brushes
and bins of literate dust I'm getting tired of looking for her

moon syrup and salt flakes of banished skin
tarnished heels that map tables with scant wheat
spread legs and spread time and spread grin
the face of which is covering the earth in her reflections
where I am hiding in a leaf's tic
in a storm fallen through the basin of a park fountain
a bomb rusting through the walls of this antique cherry

plowing rings of sand the ripples of a thoughtful face
to a blade fresh from sharpening wheels
tapped like a tomb, like a mailbox
covering time for the wrong organ
circling a driveway with non-driveway tires
and pondering crushed soil with a hand of leather
on all the transparencies rolled down
blood dimming and dawning to be interred

through the spiral heart and the nexus gateway
where in our many we are one and not-one
sphincter and pressing orb
fluid brains and basking bodies
torn from the arc, become the arc
fledgling lips waxed in historical countenance
and rattled by the lack of it
bitches need like water.