In an open area,
kneel with your hands on the ground, and your
head low
In the evening when the
humidity is highest
and the sun
bares its teeth and grins and jingles
just before it
falls
And my belly bares its teeth against the
feeling
of a
falling stone
And I'm breaming my belly at the
bar
where my heart is a
bottled ship
No way to get out, it was built in there.
Normal
tissue does not grow back after a large
wound.
This is why we made the word
scar, this is why we made
argentation, why we line things with silver,
why we remember in pieces
so we can build with our
stitches.
Scar tissue has grains like
sand,
like
sugar, like
salt.
It's made of something
older than the rest of us,
knows words we don't remember,
but forgets some like feel.
I have no time for him anymore,
but there is
space there
gray and clank and
empty.
Lighting struck a sand heart, left a
jagged line
of dark glass from top to bottom,
and the sand then fell away.
Harden me and mine, harden my heart.
Etch initials into dark glass with diamend test
purity. Take me high from cement and phone poles,
the amber rooms and
staceato lows
where sweating glass fills bellies amber
and lulls you to sleep where night falls in a
city,
where the warm rooms are so high
and
lonely glass casts a dozen of you back
and the walls are too slick for
climbing.