seven
My mouth splits in half again
Light amidst the leaves
Emeralds and gold
The sky resigns itself in lieu of us
My chest billows outward I am so sorry
I can't hold my teeming inside
Trembling wishbones splatter through two faces
He looks like the moon
Crawling over the field
He is the strands
Of green in the glass
She wears the gravel
That holds up the road
She is the blurring
Of lines in your hand
The heat is a whine in the chimes
When the pipes pop out your hips
The heat is the drip down your throat clenching up
A skidmark
Their love bumps along to the creaks in the walls
Her velvet-bleeding ear spilt secrets to the springs
They soak ib drops of heaven's eye grinned out
There's a little house in fifty thousand ex-five-hundred -
John ap Water bathing bags in crackling cricks.
Cut shivers from the draino called her
shit-heel-faced and bloody mouth.
The windows kindly reflect grills and grins their neighbors had.
Saves her face to see them, saves
the sight from kids who run
past cars whose gnashing they can't hear past hers.
There's rhythm in the creaks of the walls
and the trees, cherry cracked like her lips
wracked against a whip.
She spit bleach bubbles way back.
None of us ever said gospel had a say.
He's drying under solvent skies.