On Writing

Small words lick us

Salty sweet on opened skin

The fat underneath

Trimmed to just shavings

Pens and needles cut and stitch

Until we are perfect

Beautiful, in fact

With our insides out

Our insides outed and aching

Bone from the closet floor,

Its marrow coveting skin

Its perception

Pulp of our hearts

Pushing

Pushing veins

Until there is light

Thin sheets of light

For us to stand on

For us to rest our hearts on

Thin sheets of light

Into which we climb

Into which we

Wrap ourselves

Like blankets

Like childhood

And its breasts

Full of milk

And warm honey

The warm thighs

Of coming to age

In back seats

In back rooms

That are soon too dark

And damp

Bricks in a basement

Cinder stained through

Thin sheets of skin

Stained fingers black

Like leaded hearts

And welded mouths

Waiting for thin light

For paper thin feelings

For microphones

And their cheap voices

Filling tiny closets

Dark corners

Whiskey glass bottoms

And sailed ships

Filling lines

With circles

And the spaces

Wrapped inside of them

Thin lines

Of thinning love

On thinning paper

On shaky ground

Deserted mouths

And their thinning veils
Have worn me thin
On writing

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