it packs its pillows and people with straw
A colic mail of heirloom traits—
his birthmark, his pox ability,
his scarecrows in genes and
particle call to flesh from a
semen alphabet scrawled within
some breath’s eggshell bookcase.
Midnight tugs one’s tongue up
from the mouth and then roots
and snorts into boxes in attics
of tits set together, two each,
like sculpted musical tones.
His essence on a burner
babies the hairs, and a crushed,
He wilds and ferals his bed
beneath her, and talks a touch
of teeth in a final, radio broadcast:
Help me come out of my
The response is hinged, the world
opens and closes; it packs its pillows
and people with straw, these all
merging to decipher him
a dusk between.