Wednesday, February 2, 2011

Dwelling Places

there is a body eroding inside of me, rotting
out my mouth

i have a taste for death; it has cracked two of my teeth,
but i do not think, no matter how many times
my internal dwelling collapses, that death ever leaves

nor do i ever

(how could i, with our bodies entwined,
fingers clasping fingers; when i reach
for love with this heart of our hearts
does death love through me? or in me? or of me?)

leave it

because we both must walk
with clubbed feet, black lungs; we live
in our lipless love, grinning

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