April 10

if you bowed my flesh
my face, into your hair
the colored adder, the ramp
of red beneath a curl
and how alien the mice
appear to whisper fed
nothings in my outstretched
ears – say the spocking of time
the purely ontological
washed clean of begging
of beginnings, say the grain
the graft, the shearing of each
bleating calf and here’s how
we draw the frown, the downing
of each of our faces nearer
to water in constant
motion – the pass
between seeing and sought
my frame for your eyes’
sore, my backfire for your
turn away. this is how
my mother made me a bore
and you, my dear,
suddenly afraid for your
grindling safety take
what little you know
from tales you were told
and lightly sketch an outline
of a snake whose mouth
will widely invoke another
more simple hole
the face entire in its structure
upended, unopened
can only be called a place
for feeling, or how we hide
plain in sight.


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