One last thing on the strangeness
of bodies— said as if a discovery, this
skin of ours. The words steal into the hedges
borne on nothing but our bones &
the bag of seagulls beating inside the body
& a name neatly folded in our mouths.
We were all born with that breath – our fathers
tucked in the cortex, these terms that unwish sons
below us. In all counting systems, zero
tastes the same because we dress & eat
through the eyes studying each other
as containers we are, as if the same
magic as that of jars.
The separation of arson &
arsonist is the fire, though everyone
fears their own flammability. First hand
is all there is even when the hands tremble. Still
we must write this. We are
thirty. The product of turpitude.
Some chemical reaction.
Say sinecure. Say it.
A slim thread of blood running
away from our lips.