I
may twist my
hands as gracefully as a dove
in flight;
corroded
like the summer cliffs in Arizona.
Breathe in the air,
breathe out the sweet toxins
we pushed from our bodies like sweat
from the brow of your mother
just before she knew you
are a
monsterthiefrabbi. And I--
I must be dashing, darling,
because my wrists,
they are so fragile,
so weak, tender like fresh-cut
venison from the bone, and I
cannot bear the carmine
beatbeatbeat of your transient affections.
Snap, snap, snap like fingers in the fog.
