when you’re at the bottom of a well
the minutest caress of sunlight can
feel like a dangling hook itching for
your lips slaking the thirst of loneli-
ness with another sort of bondage.
i am in here spinning silences out
of the nettles of mist as the blood
slow-drips into the condensed milk
i’ve set aside for my morning coffee
brewing hot with neapolitan desire.
searched for a sun in unclouded broth
plucked a rose that bled in longing i
negotiate the spine of the book you
left behind and look to see if appeared
i did in any sprawling annotation.
how to grow old in the presence of
a crowd that can’t understand weak-
ness in the teeth of the enemy or
swooning from the labor of the sun—
they’d rob the blush from my cheeks.
peering out of the oculus of my fever
dream i see a starry blindness someone
has swept away the fog and my broken
compass if they didn’t know i was down
here they might never bother to find out.