obstacles
are a kind of faith, 
bleeding through
intention
as if through some
amorphous skin,
red silk,
a bruised clock 
covered in 
veins and cloaked
with skin,
timed to burst.

i am nothing
if i am not a dream
of yours, waking
from the geometric light
of my window
into a shimmering cup,
poured full of your words
my hips dripping
their tiny mechanisms,
whirring impatiently
my mouth
made raw,
swirling in incense,
growing new teeth,
finding ulcers
to bleed through.
i drip and cough
and sleep and bleed
and hope
that i am strong enough
for someone like you.

i am taped
and bandaged
and covered up
blindfolded
but you can still see
the endless flaws.


i watch the trees break,
embryos shivering,
wolves chewing,
the elastic stretch between moments as
one thing lives and another dies,
as each day i create my chances,
i hold my deck of cards and slice two in half,
i eat one, i rip another,
and i still win the game.

you are the card i never play,
the one i hold on to,
the lucky coin
that never dies,

the silk lilies
on my dresser.

curtains are made for moving,
for seeing through,
the absence of obstacles.
you are the curtain
that brushes a locked window,
you are the cotton that sweeps
a pane of glass,
you are stuck
in the condensation
after a storm,

as i weep and cloud
you reach your whole body
in a dance to the floor.

i have crafted metaphors
on the gem of your smile,
i have warped adjectives
to seek your gaze,
i have rolled on my back
for the vernal, delicious
dips of languages
to roll down my thighs

only to wake up 
and make tea alone,
to part the curtains
and let in the moon.